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B  A  L  D  I  N  E 


anU  ot()cr  Calcs 


KARL  ERDMAKN  EDLER 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  GERMAN 

BY  THE  EARL  OF  LYTTON 


NEW  YORK 
HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN  SQUARE 

1887 


TRANSLATOR'S  PREFACE. 


Our  novel-reading  public  is  plenteously  supplied  by 
its  book -market  with  native  productions  and  French 
imports  of  every  description;  and  for  the  lighter  prod- 
uce of  German  literature  there  is,  at  present,  little  or 
no  demand.  To  tiie  Dii  M'mores  of  that  literature 
their  own  countrymen  no  longer  accord  the  immortal- 
ity so  confidently  certificated  by  Carlyle  half  a  century 
ago.  But  the  Seer  of  Chelsea  was  not  far-seeing  in  his 
estimates  of  the  relative  importance  of  German  writers 
after  Goethe ;  nor  can  he  be  altogether  exempted  from 
the  censure  passed  by  himself  upon  Mr.  Taylor,  as  an 
expositor  of  German  literature  to  wliom  some  of  its 
most  characteristic  productions  were  "  a  sealed  book, 
or,  what  is  worse,  an  open  book  in  which  he  would  not 
read." 

Upon  Tieck,  and  Novalis,  and  Jean  Paul  Richter 
Carlyle  bestowed  elaborate  criticism  quite  out  of  pro- 
portion to  their  permanent  literary  value;  while  Grill- 
parzcr,  the  most  genuine  dramatic  poet  of  his  time, 
he  contemptuously  dismissed  from  notice  as  "a  mere 
playwright."  The  philosophy  of  Fichte  and  Schelling 
found  in  him  an  appreciative  interpreter ;  and  his 
miscellanies  make  respectful  mention  of  minor  German 
poets  whose  names  are  now  almost  forgotten.     But  of 


4  tkanslatok's  preface. 

Schopenhauer  and  Heine  he  had  nothing  to  tell  us;  nor 
of  their  transcendent  influence  in  departments  of  Ger- 
man literature,  which  continued  to  engage  his  atten- 
tion after  the  death  of  those  writers,  although  both  of 
them  were  his  literary  contemporaries ;  the  one  his 
senior,  and  the  other  not  greatly  his  junior,  in  author- 
ship.* 

Ilahent  sua  fata  Ubelli!  and  no  predictions  are  so 
often  falsified  as  those  of  literary  criticism.  Countess 
Hahn-Hahn  (that  once  popular  novelist!)  has  gone  the 
way  of  all  flesh,  and  her  works  follow  her.  Of  the  lat- 
er writers  of  German  fiction,  Gustav  Freytag  and  Paul 
Heyse  are  not  unknown  to  the  English  novel-reader; 
but  they  have  certainly  exercised  no  influence  over 
English  thought  or  sentiment.  The  illustrious  author 
of  "Wilhelm  Meister"  and  "  Wahlvervandtschaf ten  " 
would  perhaps  have  disdained  the  title  of  novelist. 
Regarded  as  works  of  art,  however,  his  fictions  cannot 
be  placed  in  the  category  of  good  novels.  To  say  the 
truth,  the  novel,  whether  of  manners  or  of  character,  is 
a  form  of  fiction  so  unsuccessfully  cultivated  by  Ger- 
many, that  in  the  department  devoted  to  its  production 
her  imaginative  literature  scarcely  deserves  the  atten- 
tion it  has  failed  to  receive  from  the  countrymen  of 
Fielding  and  Richardson. 

But,  though  I  hope  they  may  please  our  novel-read- 
ing public,  it  is  not  exclusively  to  it  that  I  offer  these 
specimens  of  the  lighter  workmanship  of  a  German 
writer  whose  genius  has  created  a  type  of  fiction  sui 
generis.  Like  some  of  Nathaniel  Hawthorne's  "  Mosses 
from  an  Old  Manse,"  or  the  "  Marchen  "  of  Hans  Chris- 

*  Schopcnbaucr  was  born  in  1788,  and  Carljie  in  1795.  IIcinc,wlio 
jokingly  called  himself  the  first  man  of  his  centarj-,  was  born  on  the 
1st  of  Januar)',  1800.    He  died  in  1856,  and  Schopenhauer  in  1860. 


TRANSLATORS   PREFACE.  5 

tian  Andersen,  though  written  in  prose,  they  belong,  in 
all  essentials,  to  the  province  of  poetry.  They  do  not 
fetch  their  subject  from  the  clouds,  however,  though 
they  lift  it  above  the  common  level.  They  are  not 
abstractions  of  pure  fancy,  but  ideal  delineations  of 
real  feeling,  with  a  definite  core  of  human  interest.  In 
this  respect  they  differ  fundamentally  from  all  such  fic- 
tions as  those  of  Lamotte-Fouque,  Arnim,  Brentano, 
and  Hoffmann.  The  world  into  which  they  admit  us 
is  neither  supernatural  nor  grotesque,  but  thoroughly 
human.  It  is  a  world  peopled  by  men  and  women — 
not  by  spectres,  or  sylphs,  or  abstract  qualities  in  fancy 
costume.  Some  of  their  descriptive  passages  reveal 
an  intimacy  with  the  feelings  of  childhood  and  the 
significance  of  inanimate  objects  which  will  occasion- 
ally remind  an  English  reader  of  the  humor  of  Ander- 
sen. But  between  the  genius  of  their  author  and  that 
of  the  Danish  poet  the  diffei-enco  is  also  far-reaching; 
for  where  Andersen  ends,  this  author  only  begins.  His 
imagination  hovers  tenderly  over  the  realm  of  child- 
liood,  but  it  does  not  rest  there  ;  and  what  it  seeks 
in  the  child  is  the  father  of  the  man. 

Those  to  whom  any  work  of  original  genius  is  al- 
w^ays  welcome,  come  av hence  it  may,  will  probably  be 
able  to  find  some  charm  even  in  the  clumsiest  trans- 
lation of  it.  But  much  of  the  peculiar  charm  of  Edler's 
Avritings  is,  I  fear,  inseparable  from  their  original  form. 
Germanisms  which  are  graceful  in  their  native  idiom 
would  appear  grotesque  in  ours.  Colors  delicately 
brilliant  in  one  medium,  become  opaque  and  crude 
when  mixed  with  any  other.  Each  language,  more- 
over, has  not  only  an  idiom,  but  also  a  cadence,  special 
to  itself.  These  conditions  of  his  task  sometimes  make 
it  impossible  for  a  translator  to  preserve  the  spirit,  if  he 


6  TRANSLATOR'S   PREFACE. 

maintains  a  strict  fidelity  to  the  letter,  of  the  original. 
And  yet  even  slight  variations  in  the  structure  of  a 
sentence  or  the  position  of  an  epithet  may  injuriously 
change  the  Avhole  character  of  an  original  style;  just 
as  the  addition  of  a  pair  of  whiskers  sufficed  to  con- 
vert the  honest  face  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverlcy  into  the 
Saracen's  Head. 

The  author  of  these  tales  is  a  consummate  master 
of  the  idiom  of  his  own  language.  In  his  hands  Ger- 
man prose,  that  generally  cumbrous  vehicle  of  expres- 
sion, becomes  a  perfect  instrument,  and  he  plays  it  to 
perfection.  His  style  is  not  put  on,  and  therefore  it 
cannot  be  taken  off.  "Edler,"  says  one  of  his  Ger- 
man critics,  "  combines  great  poetic  gifts  with  a  wide 
culture  and  an  original  mind ;  but  these  are  merits 
which,  though  rare,  are  shared  with  him  by  other  writ- 
ers. What  is  peculiarly  his  own  is  the  mastery  of 
style  which  marked  even  his  first  appearance  as  an 
author;  and  it  is  this  which  renders  his  genius  as  cap- 
tivating as  it  is  original."  Fortunately,  however,  the 
charm  of  this  author's  individuality,  though  enhanced 
by  his  style,  is  not  wholly  dependent  on  it.  The 
depth  and  tenderness  of  his  humanity;  the  accuracy 
of  his  touch  upon  the  finer  emotions  ;  the  delicacy 
with  which  he  lifts  the  inner  folds  of  feeling  ;  the 
pensive  sweetness  of  his  humor,  and  an  instinctive 
refinement  of  taste  that  never  by  inadvertence  strikes 
a  jarring  note — these  are  merits  which  his  writings 
may  still  retain,  even  in  versions  that  lack  the  light, 
melodious  movement  of  his  style. 

Karl  Erdmann  Edler  was  born  in  1844,  at  Padebrod 
in  Bohemia,  and,  whether  of  Slavonic  or  (as  his  name 
implies)  of  German  parentage,  he  seems  to  have  been 
born  with  a  genius  in  which  the  characteristic  note 


translator's  preface.  7 

of  both  nationalities  is  curiously  distinguishable.  He 
commenced  his  university  career  at  Vienna  ;  and  it 
was  there,  last  spring,  that  I  first  became  acquainted 
with  his  works,  through  Prince  Philip  Hohenlohe,  a 
friend  of  their  author.  I  began  the  perusal  of  them 
with  reluctance,  and  in  a  sceptical  spirit.  I  liad  been 
asked  to  read  them  with  special  reference  to  the  ques- 
tion whether  some  of  them,  if  ti*anslated,  would  have 
any  chance  of  a  favorable  reception  from  the  English 
public  ;  and  I  expected  to  find  them  written  in  the 
style  of  Freytag's  "  Sollen  und  Haben."  But  I  had 
not  read  many  pages  before  I  felt 

"  As  a  watcher  of  the  skies,  - 
Whcu  some  new  planet  swims  into  his  Iceu." 

I  was  conscious  of  being  in  contact  with  the  mind  of 
a  new  and  genuine  poet ;  and  hence  the  present  at- 
tempt to  make  some  few  of  his  writings  known  to 
those  of  my  countrymen  who  are  dependent  on  trans- 
lations for  their  knowledge  of  German  books. 

Edler's  first  work,  entitled  "  Koloritstudien,"  was 
published  at  Vienna  in  IS'/S.  It  consisted  of  two 
short  romances,  "Wilfred"  and  "Gabor;"  the  first  a 
tale  of  the  German  Middle  Age,  and  the  second  a 
story  of  the  steppes.  "  Gabor,"  says  an  Austrian 
writer,  "  is  a  magnificent  symphony,  which  has  in  it 
the  very  soul  of  the  gypsy  music."  And  here  I  may 
observe  that,  with  rather  less  absurdity  than  is  com- 
monly involved  in  the  prevalent  fashion  of  applying 
to  the  effects  of  one  art  the  technical  terminology  of 
another,  the  three  little  stories  printed  together  in 
these  volumes  might  perhaps  be  described  as  sym- 
phonies of  sentiment,  each  in  a  different  key. 

Karl  Edler's  genius  is  psychological  and  dramatic. 


8  translator's  preface. 

All  his  works,  whatever  the  form  or  the  subject  of 
them,  are  dramas  of  the  inner  life.  But  he  respects 
the  order  of  Nature,  which  has  decently  placed  out  of 
sight  the  inward  organs  of  life,  and  his  heroes  and 
heroines  are  not  continually  turning  themselves  inside 
out  for  the  purpose  of  self-examination.  lie  works 
by  synthesis  rather  than  by  analysis,  and  builds  up 
his  characters  instead  of  taking  them  to  pieces.  In 
his  style  there  is  no  flourish  of  the  anatomist's  scal- 
pel, in  his  work  no  odor  of  the  dissecting-room.  His 
characters  are  alive,  and  we  hear  the  beating  of  their 
hearts  ;  though  we  hear  them  only  through  the  fine 

atmosphere  of  those 

"Lohen  Regionen 
Wo  die  reincn  Formcn  wolincn." 

He  has  been  justly  praised  as  a  colorist,  but  he  does 
not  aim  at  startling  spectacular  effects,  and  the  ])e- 
culiar  merit  of  his  coloring  is  in  a  subtle  harmony  be- 
tween the  pervading  tone  of  the  picture  and  the  cen- 
tral idea  of  its  design.  That  idea,  moreover,  is  always 
beautiful,  always  graceful,  and  intellectually  high- 
born. For  Edler  is  not  a  literary  photographer,  but 
an  ideal  artist.  Hence,  in  bis  slightest  sketches  we 
find  a  noble  breadth  of  suggestiveness,  and  large  pro- 
portions in  small  dimensions.  His  workmanship,  how- 
ever, is  highly  finished  ;  and,  unlike  Jean  Paul,  of 
whom  it  has  been  well  said  that  he  gives  us  his  brains 
instead  of  liis  thoughts,  Edler's  conceptions  are  never 
crude  or  confused. 

The  defect  more  or  less  common  to  the  imaginative 
writers  of  Germany  is  an  undefinable  flavor  of  some- 
thing provincial  and  Kleinstiittig.  Even  the  great 
Goethe  is  not  wholly  free  from  it.  But  of  this  no 
trace  is  to  be  found  in  Edler's  writing.     Nor  in  his 


TRANSLATOR  S   PREFACE.  9 

liamor  is  there  anything  disorderly  or  uncouth.  All 
is  select,  symmetrical,  reticent,  refined,  lie  is  an  es- 
sentially well-bred  writer. 

The  romance  of  "  Wilfred,"  published  with  "  Ga- 
bor"  under  the  title  of  "Koloritstudien,"  has  been 
compax'ed  with  Scheffel's  "  Ekkerhard,"  I  suppose  be- 
cause it  presents  to  us  the  image  of  a  mediaeval  monk 
under  the  influence  of  a  passion  forbidden  by  his 
vows.  But  in  nothing  else  do  the  two  books  bear 
any  resemblance  to  each  other, 

Scheffel  is  a  vigorous  and  racy  writer,  I  am  very 
far  from  wishing  to  speak  of  his  remarkable  talent  in 
any  spirit  of  depreciation.  His  "  Trompeter  von  Seck- 
ingen"  and  his  "Frau  Aventura"  are  works  of  great 
force  and  spirit,  which  leave  a  lasting  mark  upon  the 
memory ;  and  the  whimsical  fun  of  his  paleontologi- 
cal  poems  is  delightful.  But  the  difference  between 
his  writings  and  those  of  Edler  is  still  a  difference  be- 
tween talent  and  genius, 

Scheffel  goes  to  the  Middle  Ages  for  his  materials, 
as  a  connoisseur  goes  to  a  curiosity  shoj)  to  furnish 
his  house  in  a  particular  genre.  Whenever  Edler  re- 
verts to  a  past  age  for  the  raw  material  of  his  ro- 
mances, it  is  as  a  student  of  those  human  emotions 
which  are  common  to  all  ages,  and  of  which  time  only 
varies  the  external  conditions.  The  predominant  sen- 
timent of  all  his  writing  is  a  profound  compassion  for 
the  incompleteness  and  sorrowfulness  of  human  life. 
In  Scheffel's  writings  there  is  no  compassion,  nor  in 
his  view  of  life  is  there  any  cause  for  it. 

The  fact  is,  Germany  is  no  longer  a  Prometheus 
Vinctus  ;  and  Scheffel's  books  reflect  the  justifiable 
contentment  of  a  successful  people,  whose  chief  con- 
cern is  to  enjoy  what  it  has  so  patiently  and  painfully 


10  TRANSLATORS  PREFACE. 

acquired — its  mental  culture,  its  national  importance, 
its  picturesque  past  and  promising  future.  All  his 
productions,  whether  in  prose  or  verse,  are  variations 
on  the  theme  of  Gaudeamus  igitiir! 

Compare  the  mediaevalism  of  Scheffel  with  that  of 
Novalis,  the  difference  between  them  is  enormous. 
And  it  is  historical;  for  it  marks  the  progress  made 
by  educated  Germany,  in  less  than  two  generations, 
from  aspiration  to  attainment,  Edier  is  the  reverse  of 
all  this;  and,  with  nothing  in  him  either  of  the  mys- 
ticism of  Novalis  or  the  jollity  of  Scheffel,  he  stands 
in  a  totally  different  relation  to  German  literature. 

Scheffel  was  born  at  Karlsruhe,  and  educated  at 
Heidelberg.  Edler  was  born  at  Padebrod,  and  edu- 
cated at  Vienna.  Scheffel  was  a  j'oung  man,  and 
Edler  only  a  child,  in  1848;  and  these  facts  go  far  to 
explain,  not  only  the  difference  between  the  tempera- 
ments of  the  two  poets,  but  also  why  Young  Germany 
has  accorded  to  the  complacent  conservatism  of  the 
elder  a  popularity  not  likely  to  be  ever  attained,  in  the 
present  generation,  by  the  wistful,  questioning  sadness 
of  the  younger. 

The  "  Koloritstudien  "  were  followed  by  the  classi- 
cal romances  of  "Ursinia"  and  "Artemis,"  tlie  first 
of  which  appears  to  me  one  of  the  most  charming  of 
all  its  author's  creations.  In  a  German  criticism  of 
this  book  I  find  a  passage  which  so  correctly  indicates 
the  general  characteristics  of  the  author's  genius  that 
I  cannot  forbear  quoting  it.  "  What  nobility,"  ex- 
claims the  critic,  "  in  the  conception,  and  what  magic 
in  the  execution!  This  is  not  skill, but  inspiration — a 
complete  and  unconscious  surrendering  of  the  artist's 
whole  mind  to  a  high  ideal,  and  an  unerring  adherence 
to  that  ideal — the  perfect  embodiment  of  a  beautiful 


TRANSLATOR  S  PREFACE.  11 

mind  in  a  beautiful  form,  by  some  process  as  mysteri- 
ously spontaneous  as  that  of  Nature  herself,  in  which 
there  is  no  j^erceptible  trace  of  art,  or  effort,  or  self-con- 
sciousness of  any  kind.  The  fanciful,  the  humorous, 
and  the  tender  find  here  an  expression  which  not  only 
satisfies,  but  transports  us.  I  remember,  in  pai'ticular, 
that  scene  upon  the  Esquiline  where  Ursina  is  waiting 
for  Eleanus.  With  what  subtle  strokes,  in  what  living 
tints,  does  the  author  reveal  to  us  the  inmost  motions 
of  the  girl's  spirit,  its  rapidly  changing  moods,  and  its 
abiding  undertone  of  unfathomable  sadness!  And  all 
without  a  word  of  interposed  description  or  explana- 
tion! With  what  Avitchery,  moreover,  in  the  attain- 
ment of  this  effect,  does  he  contrive  to  impart,  as  it 
were,  a  human  echo  to  the  surrounding  scenery!  There 
is  but  one  name  for  such  writing.  It  is  poetry  of  the 
purest  and  highest  order." 

T(f"Ursinia"  and  "Artemis"  succeeded  the  three 
little  modern  idyls  which  make  up  the  contents  of  the 
present  volumes.  Of  one  of  them,  "Notre  Dame  des 
Flots,"  a  French  translation,  by  Princess  Hohenlohe, 
was,  I  believe,  published  some  years  ago  in  the  lieviie 
de  France.  In  the  list  of  Edler's  works  must  also  be 
mentioned  a  drama,  of  which,  however,  I  know  nothing 
except  that  it  is  entitled  "Theodora,"  and  has  been 
acted  at  Hanover.  His  two  latest  productions  are 
"  Peire  de  Cinqtors,"  a  troubadour  romance,  and  "  The 
Last  Jew,"  which  is  generally  regarded  in  Germany  as 
its  author's  greatest  work.  The  power  of  the  book  is 
indisputable,  but  I  must  avow  a  strong  personal  prefer- 
ence for  his  smaller  idyls.  Great  historical  novels 
are  less  uncommon  than  such  literary  cameos. 

From  this  enumeration  of  Edler's  works,  the  reader 
will  see  that  the  three  translated  here  have  been  select- 


13  TKANSLATOIiS  PREFACE. 

ed  from  the  sliortcst  and  least  elaborate  of  them  all. 
They  illustrate  rather  the  delicacy  of  the  author's 
workmanship  than  the  full  scope  and  variety  of  his 
creative  powers.  But  I  doubt  whether,  since  Goethe's 
"Mignon,"  imaginative  literature  has  produced  a  cre- 
ation more  novel  in  its  beauty,  or  more  touching  in 
its  pathos,  than  that  of  Baldine — the  child  who,  reared 
in  silence  and  solitude,  with  the  dumb  playmates,  the 
dumb  nurse,  and  the  dumb  god,  has  in  her,  all  the  while, 
a  gift  of  surpassingly  expressive  song;  a  gift  unknown 
to  herself,  and  revealed  only  through  an  overwhelm- 
ing sorrow.  And  the  process  whereby  the  great  for- 
lorn artist  is  at  last  redeemed  from  moral  petrifaction, 
through  the  stimulus  gradually  given  to  that  capacity 
of  gratitude  which,  equally  unknown  to  herself,  had 
survived  in  her  the  loss  of  every  other  human  feeling, 
appears  to  me  a  conception  of  wonderful  subtlety 
and  truth.  The  art  with  which  the  story  is  t#ld  is 
equally  remarkable.  There  is  not  a  single  incident, 
however  trivial,  in  the  opening  chapters,  which  does 
not  bear,  with  steadily  increasing  significance,  upon  the 
whole  development  of  the  character  of  Baldine  and 
the  final  solution  of  the  problem  it  presents. 

In  the  nature  of  its  subject, "  Notre  Dame  des  Flots  " 
approaches  nearer  than  any  of  Edler's  other  fictions  to 
the  level  of  the  ordinary  novel.  But  it  has,  in  common 
with  them  all,  a  certain  spaciousness  of  spirit;  and 
this  is  a  supreme  merit,  considering  how  many  long 
and  elaborate  works  of  fiction  resemble  large  -  scale 
maps  of  Little  Pedlington.  In  these  short  tales  the 
circumference  of  the  actual  story  is  small,  but  not  so 
the  scope  of  its  suggestiveness.  It  is  like  a  pinhole, 
through  which  the  eye  sees  far.  The  field  of  vision 
swept  by  the  gaze  through  so  minute  an  outlet  is  of 


translator's  preface.  18 

course  restricted;  but  what  we  see  is  the  segment  of  a 
vast  orb;  and,  as  tlie  segment  has  all  the  qualities  of 
the  unseen  circle  to  which  it  belongs,  its  significance  is 
large.  This  far-reaching  suggestiveness  is  not  want- 
ing to  the  story  of  "Notre  Dame  des  Flots;"  and  it  is 
specially  potent  in  the  closing  picture  of  the  happy 
daughter  treading  over  the  nameless  grave  of  the  de- 
voted mother,  on  her  way  to  inspect  the  monument  she 
is  raising  to  the  honored  memory  of  the  utterly  worth- 
less father.  The  best  judge  I  know  of  imaginative 
literature  has  said  to  me  of  this  story,  "It  is  very  pa- 
thetic, but  I  cannot  help  wishing  it  had  stopped  with 
the  adoption  of  Blanche's  daughter  by  Dumont.  The 
mind  would  have  reposed  in  the  hopes  it  would  have 
formed  for  the  child.  To  destroy  this  illusion  balks 
us,  and  creates  a  feeling  of  disappointment."  I  should 
entirely  agree  in  this  criticism,  if  it  were  only  an  ab- 
stract statement  of  that  principle  of  art  which  requires 
that  at  the  close  of  the  tragedy  we  should 

"  With  peace  and  consolation  be  dismist, 
And  calm  of  mind." 

But  it  implies  that  there  is  a  violation  of  the  princi- 
ple, which  I  am  unable  to  recognize,  in  the  denoiXment 
of  "  Notre  Dame  des  Flots."  No  principle  of  art  re- 
quires that  such  a  story  as  this  should  end  comfort- 
ably in  relation  to  the  order  of  external  fact;  and  the 
story  would  not  end  with  greater  comfort  to  the  mor- 
al sense  if  it  ended  in  the  manner  suggested.  The  il- 
lusion retained  would,  in  that  case,  be  a  fraud  upon 
the  imagination  ;  and  it  seems  to  me  that  its  reten- 
tion would  have  lowered  the  whole  tone  of  the  work. 
Nor  do  I  feel  that  the  author  has  disappointed  any 
hopes  for  the  daughter  which  can  be  legitimately  ex- 


14  tkanslator's  preface. 

cited  by  our  sympathy  with  the  self-sacrificing  devo- 
tion of  the  mother.  On  the  contrary,  all  such  hopes 
are  satisfied  with  exact  propriety.  The  only  proper 
reward  of  effort  is  the  attainment  of  its  aim;  and  no 
other  can  be  admitted  into  the  justice  of  ideal  art. 
The  mother's  aim  Avas  to  secure  the  daughter's  happi- 
ness; and  that  object  is  completely  attained,  for  the 
daughter  is  perfectly  happy.  Her  happiness,  more- 
over, in  relation  to  its  sources  as  well  as  its  effects,  is 
precisely  of  the  kind  which  the  mother  would  have 
wished  it  to  be;  for  it  proceeds  not  merely  from  her 
good  fortune,  but  from  a  sweetness  of  disposition 
which  bad  fortune  might  have  marred.  We  are  told 
that,  beautiful  as  she  is,  her  chief  beauty  is  in  her 
smile;  and  the  mention  of  this  little  fact  is  full  of  sig- 
nificance and  purpose.  The  author  must  have  meant 
us  to  understand  by  it  the  woman's  whole  character, 
for  such  smiles  are  the  sunshine  of  the  soul.  We 
know,  too,  by  the  act  of  piety  which  brings  her  to  the 
church  at  Havre,  that  she  is  not  deficient  in  filial  af- 
fection and  gratitude. 

But  to  win  to  herself  the  gratitude  of  her  daughter, 
or  to  Avean  the  child's  filial  reverence  from  the  mem- 
ory of  a  father  who  Avas  unworthy  of  it,  was  not  the 
object  of  the  mother's  life,  or  the  wish  of  her  heart. 
Such  motives  would  have  been  incompatible  Avith  this 
woman's  character;  and  equally  incompatible  with  the 
daughter's  happiness  (Avhich  loas  the  mother's  object) 
would  have  been  her  knoAvledge  of  the  truth  about  her 
parents.  The  f?enot2men^,  therefore,  does  completely  ful- 
fil, and  under  the  only  conditions  satisfactorily  imagina- 
ble, the  supreme  prayer  of  the  martyred  wife,  that  her 
child  might  never  be  pained  or  shamed  by  a  suspicion 
of  the  baseness  to  which  she  herself  was  a  victim. 


translator's  preface.  15 

Tiie  distressing  appearance  of  injustice  is,  after  all, 
in  its  perceived  relation  to  the  infinite  scheme  of  hu- 
man life,  only  an  appearance;  which  disappears  as 
soon  as  we  lose  sight  of  the  particular  in  the  contem- 
plation of  the  universal.  So  far  from  referring  it  to 
any  erroneous  conception  of  the  nature  of  art,  I  ad- 
mire in  it  a  true  reflection  of  the  inevitable  nature  of 
things  on  their  external  side;  and  I  think  it  ceases  to 
be  distressing  when  we  regard  it,  as  the  author  obvi- 
ously intends  us  to  regard  it,  in  its  relation  to  a  mys- 
tery so  vast  and  universal  as  to  excite  a  sense  of  aw- 
ful wonder  which  entirely  transcends  the  fretfulness 
of  hope  and  disappointment.  To  present  to  the  im- 
agination both  the  sorrowful  and  the  terrible  aspects 
of  "  the  painful  riddle  of  the  earth,"  I  conceive  to  be 
a  salutary,  as  well  as  a  legitimate,  function  of  ideal 
art.  It  is,  at  any  rate,  the  constant  tendency  of  Ed- 
ler's  writings;  but  he  also  reconciles  our  imagination 
to  the  real  sorrowfulness  of  the  world  by  revealing  to 
it  the  ideal  loveliness  of  sorrow.  The  highest  achieve- 
ment of  poetry  must  ever  be  in  the  ideal  representa- 
tion of  the  terrible  side  of  life.  Hence  the  high  rank 
accorded  to  Tragedy  in- the  hierarchy  of  imaginative 
art.  But  injustice  is  a  purely  personal  quality,  and 
Tragedy  knows  no  other  justice  than  that  which  be- 
longs to  the  impersonal  order  of  the  Universe;  which, 
however  terrible  in  many  of  its  aspects  and  effects, 
has  at  least  this  consolatory  quality  —  that  it  is  in- 
evitable. For,  as  no  evils  are  harder  to  endure  than 
those  of  which  we  think  that  they  might  have  been 
averted,  so  is  no  consolation  more  effectual  than  that 
which  springs  from  a  complete  recognition  of  unalter- 
able necessity. 

Of  these  three  stories,  the  "  Journey  to  the  Gross- 


16  TRANSLATOR  S  PREFACE. 

glockner  Mountain  "  best  exhibits,  perhaps,  that  pecu- 
liarity of  its  author's  genius  which  gives  tears  to  Lis 
humor  and  smiles  to  his  pathos. 

Karl  Edler's  writings  belong  to  the  literature  of  a 
sentiment  for  which  Europe  has  adopted  the  name 
given  to  it  by  Germany.  They  reveal  a  profound  con- 
sciousness of  that  Weltschmertz  which  has  claimed  so 
many  illustrious  victims,  and  given  birth  to  so  many 
great  Avorks.  But  perhaps  what  most  distinguishes 
him  from  each  of  the  writers  who  have  successively 
contributed  to  the  literary  current  he  continues,  is  his 
freedom  from  the  egotism  common  to  them  all. 

Goethe  has  been  called  the  physician,  but  he  was 
rather  the  physiologist,  of  a  malady  which  he  did  not 
attempt  to  cure,  and  which  has  long  survived  his 
diagnosis  of  its  symptoms.  Edler's  relation  to  this 
Weltschmertz  is  that  of  the  sympathizing  friend,  who 
would  fain  mitigate  the  pain  of  the  sufferer  in  whom 
he  recognizes  his  own  kindred.  During  the  ^Vuljmr- 
gisiiacht  of  1848  he  must  have  been  asleep  in  his 
cradle,  and  safe  from  the  spells  of  that  Red-capped 
Sorceress  whose  wand  transformed  so  many  tolerably 
good  poets  into  intolerably  bad  politicians.  His  writ- 
ings are  not  polemical,  like  those  of  Heine  and  Burne; 
and  there  is  no  bitterness,  perhaps  because  there  is  no 
egotism,  in  the  humor  of  them.  What  apparently  in- 
terests him  in  the  world  is  its  relation  to  itself,  not  its 
relation  to  Jam.  Few  poets  seem  more  habitually  ca- 
pable of  that  intense  but  impersonal  interest  in  man  ' 
and  nature  which  makes  it  all  one  to  the  contemplat- 
ing eye  whether  the  object  it  contemplates  be  seen 
by  it  "  from  the  window  of  a  palace  or  of  a  prison."  * 

*  Schopenhauer. 


TRANSLATORS   PREFACE.  17 

Byron's  writing  is  the  passionate  utterance  of  a  be- 
wildered revolt,  the  cry  of  a  wounded  animal  that 
suffers  without  understanding  why,  and  resents  it 
knows  not  what.  Edler's  is  the  thoughtful  expression 
of  intelligent  resignation  to  a  universal  and  inevitable 
condition  of  things — a  resignation  well  assured  that 
"  J£oerytJdn(/  has  its  Why,  could  ice  only  understand 
it;  though  it  is  not  everything  that  cries  out  xchen  it  is 
hurt."  Senancour's  is  a  moan  of  despair  prolonged  in 
one  monotonous  note  ;  Edler's  a  voice  of  consolation 
speaking  in  many  tones,  but  always  proclaiming  that 
'''•Every  human  sorroto  helps  to  bind  together  the  lohole 
human  race,  like  a  high  ayid  holy  doctrine  delivered 
unto  ally  In  him  the  Weltschmertz  is  absorbed  by  the 
Ilumanitatsidee,  and  has  thus  become  impersonal. 
The  subject  of  De  Musset's  lament  is  his  own  discom- 
fort; the  source  of  Edler's  sadness  is  a  deep  compas- 
sion for  a  world  in  which  the  nobler  the  sufferer  the 
greater  the  suffering.  Leopardi  contemplates  this  suf- 
fering without  hope,  and  perceives  in  its  conditions 
no  possibility  of  relief  ;  Edler  seeks,  and  finds,  in  a 
sympathetic  study  of  those  conditions  the  reconciling 
element  of  beauty.  "  What  is  it  in  the  human  heart," 
he  exclaims,  "  which,  xchen  we  search  it  to  the  depths, 
appears  so  unspeaJcably  sad,  and  yet  so  unspeakably 
beautiful?''''  And  this  is  the  key-note  to  all  his  writ- 
ings. 

The  imaginative  literature  of  to-day  is  not  a  liter- 
ature of  Weltschmertz,  nor  yet  of  Weltfreude,  but  of 
Freudensucht.  The  moral  malady  of  the  last  genera- 
tion had  its  source  in  the  fretfulness  of  unsatisfied 
ideals.  Our  own  age  is  a  pi'ey  to  the  incoherence  of 
a  society  which  has  no  longer  any  ideals  at  all.  The 
Revolutionary  Gospel  has  ceased  to  be  what  it  was 
2 


18  TRANSLATORS  PREFACE. 

even  fifty  years  ago — a  credited  promise  capable  of 
kindling  to  enthusiasm  men  of  strong  and  cultivated 
intellect.  It  is  only  a  manual  of  clap-trap  for  the  use 
of  charlatans,  who  proclaim,  not  the  freedom,  but  the 
sovereignty  of  the  People,  because  they  know  that, 
during  the  endless  minority  of  such  a  sovereign,  the 
most  impudent  rogues  and  vilest  flatterers  will  have 
the  best  chance  of  a  place  in  the  Council  of  Regency. 
The  fervors  which  burned  to  a  climax  in  1848,  con- 
sumed in  that  explosion  a  vast  number  of  generous 
illusions;  and  we  live  now  in  a  disenchanted  world, 
whose  strongest  aspiration  is  towards  a  mere  general 
diffusion  of  material  comfort.  Heine  was  the  poet- 
laureate  of  the  era  which  has  come  at  last  "to  this 
complexion." 

"  O  my  friends,"  he  sings,  "  I  will  give  you  a  new 
song,  and  a  better  one.  It  is  upon  earth  that  we  intend 
to  establish  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven.  We  mean  to  be 
happy  here  below,  and  no  longer  beggars.  The  idle 
belly  must  cease  to  devour  what  has  been  acquired  by 
the  industrious  hands.  There  grows  down  here  bread 
enough  for  all  the  children  of  men.  Ay,  and  roses  too, 
and  myrtles,  and  pleasure,  besides  green-peas  in  abun- 
dance !  Yes,  green-peas  for  all  the  world,  and  as  soon 
as  their  pods  are  fit  for  shelling  !  As  for  Heaven,  we 
leave  that  to  the  angels  and  span-ows."  * 

He  called  this  song  the  epithalamium  of  the  nuptials 
of  Europe  with  the  Genius  of  Liberty.  But  the  epitha- 
lamium was  composed  in  1844,  the  year  of  Edler's 
birth,  and  many  things  have  happened  since  then.  The 
nuptials  have  been  not  only  celebrated  but  consum- 
mated.    The  guests  got  intoxicated  at  the  wedding- 

*"Germania." 


translator's  preface.  19 

feast,  and  behaved  uproariously.  They  hugged  and 
embraced  each  other  all  round,  and  toasted  the  bride 
and  bridegroom  to  their  heart's  content.  But  after  the 
embracing  came  the  quarrelling,  as  it  generally  does 
on  such  occasions,  when  people  have  drunk  more  than 
is  good  for  them.  Many  heads  were  broken;  and  some 
lost  their  heads  altogether,  and  have  not  recovered  them 
since.  The  Happy  Couple  have  led  much  the  same 
life  as  all  other  happy  couples — a  life  of  little  joys, 
little  sorrows,  and  little  cares;  scarcely  one  of  tran- 
scendent felicity  or  splendid  achievement.  Their  chil- 
dren have  grown  up  with  no  exuberant  satisfaction  in 
their  lot,  and  no  profound  reverence  for  their  illustri- 
ous parents.  On  the  whole,  these  promising  infants 
have  turned  out  rather  dull  adults.  The  poor  old  horn- 
book of  Liberty,  Equality,  and  Fraternity  has  been 
fumbled  to  tatters;  but  its  most  enterprising  pupils 
have  not  yet  succeeded  in  satisfactorily  solving  a  single 
one  of  its  elementary  problems. 

Yes  !  the  mountains  in  labor  have  brought  forth  but 
exiguous  mice,  and  we  live  in  a  world  disenchanted. 
What  wonder  that  we  are  sick  of  sentiment  ?  It  has 
done  so  little  for  us  !  And  so  from  sentiment  we  turn 
to  sensation,  in  the  belief  that  we  are  thereby  escaping 
from  illusion  to  reality — which  is  also,  perhaps,  an  illu- 
sion. Meanwhile,  we  have  done  with  the  Unknowable, 
and  would  be  well  content  with  the  Comfortable  only, 
could  we  but  get  it.  Green-peas  and  plenty  of  them  ! 
That  were  a  reality  to  be  sensibly  appreciated.  Green- 
peas  in  abundance,  and  as  fast  as  they  can  be  shelled, 
for  all  the  children  of  men  !  This  is  still  the  Gospel  of 
the  New  Philanthropy;  and  its  apostles  assure  us  that 
the  promise  of  it  is  to  be  attained  automatically,  without 
painful  moral  effort  on  the  part  of  any  individual,  by 


ao  translator's  preface. 

the  natural  evolution  of  a  society  whose  ethics  are 
utilitarian,  its  aesthetics  realistic,  its  religion  a  ritual, 
and  its  Kingdom  of  Heaven  a  political  reform.  Gau- 
deanms  igitur! 

Responsive  only  with  a  pensive  sigh  to  these  practi- 
cal aspirations  of  an  age  whose  disillusioned  soul  is  to 
be  saved,  like  Faust's,  by  industrial  enterprise,  Edler's 
genius  has  taken  an  unfrequented  direction  of  its  own. 
A  shy  and  solitary  stream,  it  diverges  from  the  main 
current  in  which  imaginative  literature  is  now  moving. 
But  its  narrow  banks  are  haunted  by  the  wings  of 
bright  fancies  that  hover  among  the  blossoms  of  beau- 
tiful ideas;  and  in  the  lonely  waters  of  it  are  fair  re- 
flections from  old  deserted  altars  of  the  Graces,  and 
bowers  where  Eros  is  still  a  child. 

Lytton. 

Knebworth,  June,  1886. 


BALDINE. 


BALDINE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

In  the  forest  clearing  the  sunbeams  dance  round 
an  old  pine-tree. 

At  the  time  when  the  other  trees  were  felled  to 
make  the  clearing,  this  one  was  so  small  that  its 
]aro:est  boujjhs  were  no  loncjer  than  the  fing^ers  of 
an  infantas  hand.  The  woodmen,  with  their  threat- 
ening axes,  passed  it  by  ;  for  the  gentian  lured  their 
looks  away  from  it  to  her  own  bine  bells,  and  the 
wild  strawberry  covered  with  her  leaves  its  tender 
limbs,  and  above  its  small  green  head  the  protective 
bramble  spread  her  tangling  hooks  and  spikes. 

Thus  the  tree,  snrviving  all  its  elders,  has  grown 
up  alone;  and  now  it  looks  down  forlornly  upon 
the  solitnde  they  have  left  aronnd  it.  The  sun- 
beams play  about  its  dark  pj-ramid,  w'liich  they  can- 
not penetrate.  Nor  can  stem  or  branch  peep  out  to 
them  through  the  thick  black  layers  of  drooping 
fringes  that  enshroud  the  old  pine  from  head  to 
foot,  giving  it  a  sombre  aspect  —  not,  indeed,  mo- 
rose, bnt  melancholy,  as  of  a  thing  forgotten  even  by 
itself  in  its  long  loneliness.     Only  now  and  then. 


24  BALDINE. 

when  the  wind  wafts  to  it  faint  greetings  from  its 
distant  kindred  in  tiie  forest,  does  a  soft  tremor  stir 
the  solitary  tree,  lightly  inistling  its  heavy  shroud. 

In  the  shadowy  circuit  of  the  pine  crouches  a  lit- 
tle girl. 

She  is  examining  a  lai'o:e  india-rubber  ball.  The 
ball  bears  traces  of  better  days,  when  it  wore  fine 
belts  and  was  bright  with  all  the  colors  of  the  rain- 
bow. But  of  that  extravagant  foppery  it  is  now 
happily  divested;  so  far,  at  least,  as  little  fingers 
have  been  able  to  scrape  the  colors  off.  The  result, 
however,  is  clearly  not  worth  all  the  trouble  it  must 
liave  cost;  for  the  only  secret  revealed  by  the  re- 
moval of  the  colors  is  a  dull  monotony  of  colorless 
gray,  too  insipid  to  satisfy  even  the  moderate  expec- 
tations of  a  mind  easily  contented.  Deeper  still 
within  the  ball  must  lurk  the  essential  mystery  of 
its  being;  and  a  wondrous  sei'iousness  deepens  in 
the  ej'cs  of  the  little  girl  as  she  musingly  exam- 
ines it. 

"Why  do  you  jump  so?"  the  child  said  to  the 
ball. 

He  pretended  not  to  have  heard — or  was  it  per- 
haps that  he  really  did  not  hear  that  question  ?  And 
again,  putting  her  month  close  to  him,  she  cried  still 
louder,  "  Why  do  you  jump  ?" 

But  he  was  even  more  dull  of  hearing  than  she 
had  supposed. 

Then  the  child's  eyebrows  went  into  a  frown,  her 
teeth  shut  fast  behind  her  half-open  lips,  her  small 
feet  planted  themselves  firmly  against  the  ground, 
and  it  seemed  as  if  the  whole  of  her  little  body  were 


BALDINE.  25 

trying  with  all  its  might  to  concentrate  itself  into  a 
single  point.  That  point  was  the  tip  of  her  short 
forefinger,  which  she  thrust  hard  into  the  ball.  He 
yielded  good-humoredly  to  the  pressure,  and  made 
a  shallow  recess  for  the  little  finger  which  was  not 
strong  enough  to  pierce  his  tough  skin.  When  he 
liad  had  enough  of  this  sport,  however,  he  resumed 
liis  dignity,  and  jerked  the  little  finger  sharply  back, 
lie  played  the  same  sly  trick  upon  the  knuckle  and 
the  tip  of  the  tiny  foot,  with  both  of  which  she 
tried  to  get  the  better  of  him  ;  and,  apparently  quite 
resolved  not  to  have  a  hole  bored  into  him,  there  he 
lay  upon  the  ground  in  a  sulk,  his  fat  gray  cheek 
and  plump  lazy  body  swolleu  with  pride  and  obsti- 
nacy. Worse  still !  when  the  child,  pouting,  spurned 
liim  aside  with  her  little  foot,  he  even  sprang  and 
capered  about  as  if  wild  with  pleasure. 

The  meaning  of  such  conduct  could  not  be  mis- 
taken ;  it  was  pure  insolence. 

She  jumped  up  and  kicked  the  ball  angrily  over 
the  grass  and  moss  of  the  clearing  to  the  border  of 
the  forest.  A  push,  a  splash,  and  there  he  lay  in  the 
pool!  She  had  meant  to  drown  him;  but  his  bath 
seemed  to  do  him  good,  and  he  looked  as  if  he  thor- 
oughly enjoyed  it  after  his  exercise.  Up  and  down 
lie  bounded  merrily  on  the  M'ater,  hopped  lightly 
across  the  ripples,  dipped,  and  sprawled,  and  swung 
himself  about,  and  looked  saucily  up  at  her.  Then, 
refreshed  by  the  romp,  he  swam  comfortably  on  at 
a  leisurely  pace — round,  gray,  swollen,  as  before.  It 
was  intolerable. 

The  child  now  remembered  she  liad  once  heard 


26  BALDINE. 

the  old  wife  of  a  glass-cntter  in  tlie  village  saying  to 
a  farm-servant,  "  That  fellow  is  such  a  rascal,  he  de- 
serves to  be  thrown  into  the  water  with  a  stone  tied 
to  his  neck."  She  did  not  know  who  the  fellow  was, 
but  she  felt  he  could  not  possibly  be  a  greater  rascal 
than  the  ball.  With  one  hand  she  picked  up  a  stone, 
with  the  other  she  drew  a  string  from  her  pocket, 
and  eagerly  she  watched  the  saucy  swimmer. 

Suddenly,  however,  stone  and  string  fell  from  her 
fingers.  With  both  hands  she  seized  her  little  frock 
(it  was  a  frock  of  many  colors,  gayly  patched  and 
darned  all  over),  lifted  it  up  to  her  eyes,  so  high  that 
her  rosy  knees  shone  bare  beneath  it,  and  burst  out 
weeping  bitterly. 

He  had  no  neck,  not  even  a  little  one ;  and  all  out 
of  pure  spite! 

So  the  ball  kept  his  secret;  and  the  child  went 
sobbing  back  to  her  old  place  in  the  shadow  of  the 
pine-tree.  There,  upon  the  grass,  all  broken  and 
covered  with  mould,  lay  her  other  toy  —  a  little 
wooden  jumping -man.  lie  also  had  kept  his  se- 
cret. The  headless  body  of  him  still  commandingly 
stretched  out  its  arm,  and  the  bodiless  head  at  the 
side  of  it  was  still  grinning  from  ear  to  ear.  But 
why  he  grinned  so,  and  what  important  orders  he 
was  giving,  the  child  had  failed  to  find  out,  even 
after  his  destruction  ;  for  the  sawdust,  gushing  from 
a  gaping  breast-wound,  vouchsafed  no  satisfactory 
answer  to  her  questions. 

Then  the  eyes  of  the  child,  heavy  with  tears,  wan- 
dered away  from  the  dead  jumping-man  to  the 
livinor  ants  that  were  buildincr  an  elaborate  editice 


BALDINE.  27 

between  two  roots  of  the  pine-tree.  Farther  on  in 
the  clearing  the  bntterflies  and  forest -bees  finttered 
about  the  flowers;  and  in  tlie  midst  of  the  flowers 
rose  a  shining  stone,  on  which  the  lizai'ds  were 
warming  themselves  in  the  snn.  Farther  still,  in 
the  forest  itself,  the  squirrels  and  sunbeams  darted 
from  branch  to  branch.  And  all  of  them  the  child 
had  questioned,  as  she  questioned  the  ball  and  the 
wooden  man,  and  none  of  them  had  answered  her. 
None ! 

Again  she  lifted  her  frock  to  her  ej'es,  and  ran 
weeping  to  the  cottage  on  the  forest  border.  There 
she  stood  still,  and  sobbed  aloud, 

"Zenz!  Zenz !" 

Through  the  little  cottage  window  an  old  woman 
put  out  her  head.  In  the  old  woman's  face  were  a 
thousand  wrinkles,  and  the  somid  of  the  child's 
voice  crooked  and  bent  them  all  into  so  many  anx- 
ious notes  of  interrogation. 

"He  would  not  tell  me,  Zenz!  No,  oh — he,  he — 
oh,  oh  I"  sobbed  the  child,  her  words  dying  away  in 
her  sobs. 

The  thousand  notes  of  interrogation  deepened 
their  lines  upon  the  wrinkled  face,  and  the  old  wom- 
an's eyes  looked  searchingly  along  the  clearing. 

The  little  girl  understood  the  questioning  wrin- 
kles and  the  searching  eves,  and  said,  "  The  ball, 
Zenz  !     Oii,  the  ball—'' 

Then  the  head  disappeared  from  the  window- 
frame,  and  a  little  old  woman  came,  half  hobbling, 
half  trotting,  out  of  the  door.  Without  stopping, 
she  went  straight  on  across  the  forest  grass;  and 


28  BALDINE. 

the  cliild  followed  her,  looking  up  into  her  face. 
TIjc  woman's  eyes  were  bent  upon  the  ground,  still 
searchingly;  but  the  little  girl  took  hold  of  her  by 
the  gown  and  drew  her  towards  the  pool. 

"Look!  look!"  cried  the  child.  "There  he  is, 
sulking!  the  bad,  bad, wicked  ball!" 

The  old  woman  pulled  a  crooked  stick  from  the 
thicket,  and  tried  to  fish  out  the  ball.  But  the  girl 
seized  her  arm. 

"Leave  it  alone!"  she  sobbed.  "I  will  not  have 
him  now  !  No,  never,  never  more !  And  they  are 
all  just  like  him  !  The  jumping-man  has  nothing 
in  him  but  sawdust,  and  the  dragon -flies,  and  the 
little  worms,  and  the  lizards,  that  only  run  away — 
oh,  all,  all ! — they  are  just  the  same  !  And  you,  too, 
Zenz, you  too!  You  say  nothing.  It  is  only  grand- 
father that  speaks,  but  he  is  always  far  away." 

After  a  pause  she  added,  "  And  the  doctor — he 
also  can  speak.  Tell  him,  Zenz,  to  give  me  some- 
thing that  will  make  me  die.  The  doctor  can  do 
everything.     Zenz,  I  should  so  like  to  die !" 

Thereupon,  all  those  interrogative  wrinkles  sub- 
sided into  numberless  fine  lines  of  the  tenderest 
pity;  and  in  the  eyes  now  bent  upon  the  child,  the 
restless  gleam  was  softened  to  a  quiet,  loving  light. 
The  old  woman  lifted  the  little  girl  from  the  ground 
and  carried  her  on  her  left  arm,  not  without  difiicul- 
ty,  back  to  the  cottage.  With  her  right  hand  she 
talked  to  the  child  all  the  %vay  as  they  went  along. 
With  her  lips  she  could  not  talk,  for  she  was  dumb. 
But  the  little  girl  understood  the  old  woman's  dumb 
language,  and  each  of  the  crumpled  fingers  touched 


BALDINE,  29 

a  key  intelligible  to  the  child,  whose  lips  replied 
aloud  to  their  silent  motions.  All  day  long,  how- 
ever, no  audible  word  had  conic  to  the  car  of  the 
little  girl ;  nor  yesterday,  nor  the  day  before,  nor  for 
many  a  long  day  before  that. 

When  at  last  the  dninb  woman  had  laid  the  child 
safe  in  her  poor  little  bed,  the  silent  fingers  consol- 
ingly announced  to  her  that  to-morrow  the  grand- 
father would  come  home.  The  grandfather!  Ah, 
yes,  he  would  talk  with  her  to  her  heart's  content; 
and  so  at  that  news  she  ceased  weeping. 

The  little  dumb  dame  sat  by  the  bedside,  and  em- 
ployed all  her  ten  fingers  in  lulling  the  child  to 
sleep.  At  last,  when  the  moonlight,gliding  through 
the  casement,  glimmered  on  their  hushed  fantastic 
movement,  those  flitting  lingers  began  to  seem  to 
the  child,  as  they  gleamed  and  faded  in  the  gloom 
beneath  her  closing  eyelids,  like  the  fitfid  sunlights 
playing  far  away  in  the  dim  forest.  But  thcj^,  too, 
kept  their  secret,  and  she  fell  asleep. 

The  evening  of  the  next  day  the  little  girl  was 
seated  alone  on  the  pathway  skirting  the  forest  bor- 
der. Her  fingers  were  stained  Avith  the  black  forest 
earth,  for  in  it  she  had  just  been  burying  the  ball, 
which  the  old  woman  had  fished  out  of  the  pool  for 
her;  and  with  the  ball  the  jumping-man.  She  did 
not  bury  them  under  the  old  pine-tree  in  the  clear- 
ing, where  she  loved  to  sit,  but  some  way  off,  in  a 
part  of  the  forest  where  she  never  went.  What  she 
had  once  rejected  she  would  never,  never  more,  have 
anything  to  do  with ;  she  would  not  even  think  of  it ! 


30  I3ALDINE. 

The  child  had  worked  liard  at  her  sexton's  task ; 
and  now  her  tired  hands  lay  resting  in  lier  lap,  while 
her  blue  eyes  looked  dreamily  into  the  blue  distance. 

Suddenly  out  of  that  distance  came  a  faint,  low, 
creaking  sound.  She  sprung  up  and  listened,  turn- 
ing towards  the  upland,  over  which  a  way  led  from 
the  valleys  beyond  the  mountains  down  into  the  for- 
est quarter.  This  way  wound  along  what  had  once 
been  the  fence  of  an  old  deer-park.  The  park  had 
long  ago  been  thrown  open,  and  was  now  a  clear, 
unenclosed  space.  The  fence,  however,  or  at  least 
the  ruins  of  it,  remained,  leaning  crazily  towards 
the  forest,  in  one  place  half  rotten,  in  another  quite 
broken,  with  here  and  there  wide  gaps  between  the 
splintered  planks. 

The  creaking  sound  grew  louder.  When  at  last 
it  turned  into  a  discordant  shriek,  the  child  sprung 
into  one  of  the  gaps  in  the  fence  and  looked  eagerly 
through  the  opening. 

On  the  brow  of  the  upland  appeared,  first  a  head, 
then  by  degrees  a  whole  man. 

The  man  was  pushing  a  huge  wheelbarrow  heav- 
ily before  him ;  and  though  his  way  was  downhill, 
lie  seemed  to  find  it  hard  and  wearisome.  The  path 
he  plodded — if  path  it  could  be  called — v,'as  only  a 
narrow  furrow  across  the  slope  of  a  sandy  potato- 
field.  It  was  neither  drained  nor  metalled,  being 
entirely  the  work  of  the  rain,  which  had  displayed 
in  its  production  a  turn  for  picturesque  effects;  here 
scooping  out  the  ground  into  holes,  there  heaping  it 
up  into  hillocks;  and  in  the  washed-out  soil  between 
them  laying  bare  a  good  many  blocks  of  stone,  some 


BALDINE.  31 

pointed,  others  rounded  in  shape,  but  all  of  a  con- 
siderable size. 

The  barrow  staggered  along  like  a  ship  on  a  stormy 
sea,  now  rising  high,  now  sinking  deep,  swaying 
sometimes  to  the  right,  sometimes  to  the  left,  and  at 
every  moment  on  the  point  of  being  capsized.  Its 
steersman,  moreover,  was  old  and  feeble,  and  his 
beard  gleamed  in  the  sun  as  white  as  snow. 

When  the  wheelbarrow  had  got  quite  close  to  the 
fence,  the  girl  darted  along  the  palings  and  hid  her- 
self behind  them.  Then  she  called  out  in  a  feigned 
voice,  "  Featherhelm  !  Feathcrhelm  !" 

The  man  stood  still ;  that  call  was  to  him.  His 
name  was  Wilhelm  ;  the  "Feather"  was  his  profes- 
sional nickname;  and,  by  a  combination  of  the  two 
words,  he  was  called  Featherhelm. 

All  was  still.  He  listened  for  a  while,  but  there 
was  nothing  more  to  be  heard. 

The  old  man,  however,  went  on  no  farther,  but 
began  to  make  himself  comfortable  for  a  longer  rest 
where  he  had  halted.  He  pushed  the  barrow  against 
a  heap  of  earth,  put  down  the  handle,  drew  forth  his 
head  from  under  the  strap,  and  set  a  stone  under  the 
wheel.  Having  completed  these  arrangements,  he 
took  off  his  shaggy  cap,  wiped  his  dripping  forehead, 
and  holding  the  cap  with  both  hands  before  his  face, 
cried  out,  also  in  a  feigned  Iiigli  voice,  "  Baldine ! 
Baldine !" 

But  the  silence  remained  unbroken,  and  nothing 
stirred.  Then,  out  of  the  old  man's  clear  blue  eyes 
a  smile  crept  softly,  round  their  wrinkled  corners, 
all  down  his  face.     But  there  it  found  no  egress; 


82  BALDINE. 

the  face  was  so  full  of  wrinkles  and  crevices  that  it 
wandered,  quite  lost  in  their  labyrinth,  here  and 
there,  up  and  down,  like  the  barrow  on  its  rugged 
way,  till  at  last,  not  knowing  where  to  get  out,  it 
crept  back  slowl}^  from  wrinkle  to  wrinkle,  and, 
Avith  a  brisk  little  leap,  was  safe  home  again  in  the 
eyes.  Presently  the  old  man  said,  turning  round  to 
his  barrow, 

"  The  sun  is  already  below  the  Griinbcrg ;  we 
must  go  home,  old  friend  !" 

Just  then,  however,  something  behind  him  tugged 
at  his  coat-tail. 

"Baldine!  Baldine!"  he  said,  without  turning,  and 
speaking  into  his  shaggy  cap.  The  smile  again  de- 
scended the  labyrinth  of  wrinkles,  and  settled  round 
the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

"It  is  I,  grandfather!  dear  grandfather!"  cried 
the  child,  as  she  flung  her  arms  about  him,  laughing 
and  crying  all  at  once  with  exuberant  delight. 

After  the  grandfather  had  again  set  his  cart  go- 
ing, she  w^alked  proudly  at  his  side,  and  stroked  now 
and  then,  caressingly,  the  coarse  cloth  of  the  old 
man's  sleeve.  The  cart,  too,,she  stroked  sometimes, 
because  it  belonged  to  her  grand fatlier.  When  they 
reached  the  cottage,  she  helped  to  unload  the  cart. 
The  grandfather  and  Zenz  pretended  to  be  very  fee- 
ble, and  the  child  so  strong,  so  extraordinarily  strong, 
that  she  must  herself  carry  everything  inside.  The 
two  old  people  appeared  only  to  help  now  and  then, 
just  a  little.  The  shaggy  cap  Baldine  carried  into 
the  room  entirely  without  any  help  at  all,  and  hung 
it  on  the  nail  near  the  door.     Then  she  sat  down 


BALDINE.  33 

beside  her  grandfather,  and  looked  on  with  grow- 
ing impatience  while  he  ate  his  supper.  This  he 
did  very  slowlj',  for  he  had  only  a  few  teeth  ;  but  at 
hast  ho  managed  to  get  to  the  end  of  his  meal,  and 
now  he  must  talk  to  her — at  once — with  the  last  bit 
in  his  mouth.  Eagerly  she  hung  on  his  words — her 
ear  caught  every  syllable.  They  were  human  words, 
such  as  she  had  not  heard  for  many  a  long  day. 

B3'-and-by  the  old  man  rose  and  went  to  the  cart- 
shed,  lie  always  brought  home  something  for  his 
granddaughter;  gifts  worth  only  a  few  pence,  like 
the  jumping-man,  or  found,  like  the  india-rubber 
ball,  by  the  wayside.  For  Featherhelm  was  very 
poor;  but  the  scanty  gifts  of  his  poverty  made  the 
little  Baldine  very  rich.  To-day's  gift  was  also  a 
treasure  which  had  cost  nothing — a  nosegay,  which 
Featherhelm  himself  had  gathered  on  his  way  home. 
Fatigued  though  he  was  by  pushing  his  heavy  cart, 
and  weary  from  the  summer  heat,  yet  his  old  back 
liad  bent,  and  his  tired  arm  been  stretched,  as  many 
times  as  there  were  flowers  in  that  nosegay.  And 
there  were  a  great  many  flowers  in  it,  quite  a  big 
bunch  of  them ;  and  all  were  blue — bluer  than  any 
flowers  Baldine  had  ever  seen  before,  bluer  than  ev- 
er^'thing  but  the  sky. 

She  clapped  her  hands,  and  cried,  "  Give  me  them, 
grandfather !  give  me  them,  dear,  dear  grandfather  !" 
Then  she  began  at  once  to  ask,  "  From  what  garden 
did  they  come,  grandfather?" 

"From  a  very  large  garden!"  said  the  old  man. 
"It  begins  on  the  other  side  of  the  Griinberg,  and 
wdiere  it  ends  only  our  Lord  God  knows.  The  blue 
3 


84  BALDINE. 

flowere  are  called  corn-flowers ;  they  grow  wild  there, 
all  about  the  liekls.  Here  we  have  only  woods, 
meadows,  and  potato-fields,  but  no  corn;  so  that  no 
such  flowers  grow  in  our  neighborhood,  nor  can  one 
find  them  without  going  far  beyond  the  forest.  J3ut 
corn  and  corn-flower  are  always  to  be  found  togeth- 
er, like  me  and  my  cart." 

He  took  a  blossom  out  of  the  nosegay,  and  shawed 
lier  the  delicate  petals  round  its  calyx,  and  tlie  lit- 
tle stamens  inside.  Then  he  went  on  talking  to 
her  about  the  villages  in  that  large  garden  where  the 
corn  and  corn-flowers  grow;  and  of  the  town,  with 
its  tall  houses  and  crowds  of  people. 

Baldine  held  her  nosegay  very  fast  all  the  while, 
and  she  took  it  with  her  when  she  went  to  bed. 
Even  then  the  grandfather  must  sit  down  beside 
her,  and  go  on  with  his  stories.  That  he  might  not 
steal  away,  she  took  one  of  his  coat-tails  into  her 
bed,  and  held  it  there  with  one  hand,  while  the  oth- 
er still  grasped  the  flowers.  The  old  man  was  tired, 
but  he  went  on  talking ;  though  his  talk  grew  slower, 
and  his  voice  lower,  and  less  and  less  audible,  till  at 
last  he  fell  into  a  quiet  doze. 

But  Baldine  could  not  sleep.  She  mused  awake 
on  all  his  words,  and  how  different  they  were  from 
those  which  Zenz  spoke  with  her  fingers.  She  did 
not  like  to  waken  the  sleeping  grandfather,  but  lay 
quite  still,  and  only  kept  looking  at  him  with  her 
large  blue  eyes,  while  he  nodded  in  his  sleep,  and 
bowed  over  her,  as  the  bearded  corn  bows  over  the 
nestled  corn-flower. 

Baldine  awoke  late  in  the  morninir.      Lon":  be- 


BALDINE.  85 

fore  she  was  up  Feathcrhelm  liad  driven  In's  cart 
across  the  potato-fields  to  the  glass-works,  and  home 
again.  AVhen  she  stepped  out  upon  the  threshold, 
the  grandfather,  already  seated  on  his  little  bench  be- 
fore the  cottage,  was  busily  varnishing  a  large  beech- 
mushroom.  Baldine  sat  down  at  his  feet,  but  he  was 
so  absorbed  in  this  work  of  art  that  he  did  not  speak. 
She  looked  at  him  musingly  for  a  while,  and  at  last 
she  said, 

"  Grandfatlier,  why  have  you  no  hair  on  your 
head?" 

Feathcrhelm  laid  aside  his  brush,  and  held  the  shin- 
ing mushroom  against  the  sun. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "in  summer, you  know,  the  sun 
is  very  strong,  and  in  driving  my  cart  I  get  very  hot. 
Then  I  perspire.  The  perspiration  soaks  out  the 
hairs;  and  in  this  manner  all  mine  have  been  soaked 
away  slowly  one  after  the  other," 

"Ah,  then,  why  don't  you  tell  that  to  the  doctor, 
grandfather,  that  he  may  make  otlier  hairs  grow? 
The  new  doctor  is  like  God  :  he  can  do  everything; 
he  can  even  make  people  live,  if  they  are  not  already 
quite  dead  —  you  have  often  told  me  so  yourself. 
Why  don't  you  tell  him,  grandfather  ?" 

"  It  is  more  comfortable  as  it  is,"  replied  the  old 
man,  quietly. 

"More  comfortable?"  repeated  the  child. 

"Yes,  does  it  not  save  combing?  You,  for  in- 
stance, have  to  let  Zenz  plague  you  with  her  comb 
every  morning,  and  I  have  often  heard  you  crying 
under  the  process ;  yet  both  the  plaguing  and  the 
crying  seem  in  vain,  for  in  the  evening  no  one  could 


36  BALDINE. 

ever  guess  that  Zenz  bad  braided  your  bair  in  the 
morning.  Nor  could  I  ever  remove  all  the  little 
feathers  out  of  my  bair,  when  I  bad  it,  though  I  took 
great  pains.  Featherhelm  would  have  bad  to  be 
combing  bis  bead  all  da}'  long ;  and  for  that  be  bad 
no  time.  Now,  thank  God,  it  is  no  longer  necessary. 
All  is  for  the  best !" 

Baldine  looked  with  mingled  pity  and  vexation  on 
the  grandfather.  lie  bad  really  and  truly  not  a  sin- 
gle bair  on  bis  bead,  and  it  must  have  been  out  of 
pure  perversity  that  be  would  not  ask  the  doctor. 
Featherhelm  understood  her  look,  and,  as  be  again 
took  up  bis  brush,  be  repeated, 

"It  is  more  comfortable  as  it  is.  All  is  for  the 
best !" 

Baldine  sprung  from  the  position  in  which  she  had 
been  crouching  near  the  old  man's  feet,  and  stepped 
up  to  him  with  a  triumphant  composure  in  her  face. 

"  So !"  she  said,  slowly.  "  And  why,  then,  do  you 
keep  so  many  white  hairs  on  your  face  V 

"  That,  too,  is  more  comfortable,"  said  the  grand- 
father. 

"  Look,  grandfather,"  exclaimed  the  child,  "  bow 
wicked  you  are!  and  you  are  even  telling  a  lie!  I 
know  why.  It  is  because  you  are  afraid.  You  fear 
the  doctor  will  give  you  something  bitter.  "Well,  I 
also  was  once,  you  know,  afraid  of  bis  medicine.  I 
didn't  like  it  myself.  And  when  I  upset  the  spoon 
Zenz  put  it  into,  she  and  you  cried  because  you 
thought  I  would  die.  And  so  I  would,  too,  rather 
than  swallow  the  bitter  stuff,  if  I  could  have  helped 
it!    But  the  doctor  didn't  let  me  die:  be  himself 


BALDINE.  37 

held  the  spoon  to  iny  mouth,  and  told  me  wiiat  I 
must  do.  You  must  shut  your  eyes,  grandfather, 
and  swallow  it  quieklj',  all  at  once.  Then  you  feel 
almost  nothing,  and  can  have  hairs  on  your  head 
again.  The  doctor  can  do  everything,  and  yon  know 
it.     Why  do  you  tell  such  a  lie, grandfather?" 

"I  don't  tell  a  lie,  Baldine.  If  I  did  not  like  my 
beard,  I  should  be  obliged  to  scrape  it  off  every  day 
with  a  sharp  knife,  and  should  probably  cut  my  face 
all  over;  like  the  clergyman  in  Oberau,  who  has  to 
shave  himself  every  morning,  and  cannot  do  it  with- 
out scraping  his  chin  to  pieces.  So,  you  see,  it  is 
more  comfortable  for  me  as  it  is.  All  is  for  the  best. 
If  you  had  a  beard  you  -would  have  to  do  as  I  do ; 
but  it  were  a  pity  that  your  milk-white  face — " 

"Fie!"  interrupted  Baldine.  "Girls  don't  have 
beards."  And  after  a  little  pause  she  asked,  "But 
why  is  that?     Tell  me, grandfather." 

Featherhelm  smiled,  and  began  to  tell  a  story. 
He  did  this  every  time  that  he  could  not  or  would 
not  answer  a  question.  Baldine  had  plenty  of  such 
questions  in  store ;  but  the  stories  Featherhelm  could 
tell  were  even  more  numerous  than  Baldine's  ques- 
tions, and  they  were  all  delightful. 

So  the  little  girl  sat  down  again  at  his  feet  and 
listened  attentively.  After  a  while,  how^ever,  she 
tapped  him  on  the  knee. 

"  Grandfather,"  she  exclaimed,  "  why  is  one  of  your 
boots  pointed,  and  the  other  rounded?" 

Featherhelm  glanced  down  at  his  boots  approv- 
ingly. "The  left  boot,"  he  said,  "of  the  pointed 
pair  is  torn,  and  so  is  the  right  one  of  the  rounded 


88  BALDINE. 

pair;  and  tliat  is  the  reason.  I  gave  botli  the  pa- 
tients to  the  boot-doctor;  and  meanwhile  I  wear  the 
sound  one  of  each  pair.  By-and-by  tlie  right  pair 
will  come  together  a^ijain.    All  is  for  the  best." 

As  he  said  this,  the  old  man  rose  and  put  his  work 
in  the  sun  to  drj'.  Then  he  took  a  large  bag  on  his 
back,  and  Baldine  a  little  one  in  her  hand,  and  they 
went  together  across  the  clearing  into  the  forest. 
Baldine  gathered  up  the  finest  of  the  fir-cones  and 
put  them  in  her  little  bag.  She  also  kept  a  sharp  eye 
upon  the  acorns,  the  beech-nuts  and  bearded  lichens, 
the  cativin-blossoms  of  the  hazel-trees,  and  the  grass- 
es that  had  feathery  seeds;  for  all  these  things  the 
grandfather  would  afterwards  glue  together,  and  with 
tiie  scales  of  the  fir-cones,  make  them  into  little 
frames,  boxes,  and  other  pretty  ornaments.  Feather- 
helm  searched  meanwhile  for  the  beech-mushrooms, 
of  which  the  Germans  make  tinder.  Those  that 
were  particularly  large  and  fine  he  varnished,  for  sale 
to  the  wealthy  town-folks,  who  hang  them  on  their 
walls,  and  use  them  as  brackets  for  little  flower-pots 
and  knick-knacks. 

The  old  man  and  the  child  returned  from  the  for- 
est heavily  laden.  At  home  they  found  Zenz  stand- 
ing by  the  hearth,  where  she  had  just  finished  cook- 
ing their  dinner;  and  all  three  sat  down  to  a  repast 
of  potatoes  and  a  soup  made  of  sour  milk,whicli  could 
not  liave  been  more  relished  were  they  the  greatest 
dainties  in  the  world. 

The  evening  found  the  whole  family  again  in  the 
clearing  beneath  the  pine-tree.  Zenz  knitted  a  little 
stocking  for  Baldine ;  Featherhelni  carved  away  at 


BALDINE.  89 

his  little  picture-frames.  The  old  man  was  never 
idle,  ne  was  so  old,  and  pence  so  hard  to  gain  ! 
Those  which  would  be  wanted  by -and -by  for  the 
support  of  his  orphan  grandchild  must  now  be  earn- 
ed quickly. 

Baldine  told  him  all  about  the  wicked  india-rubber 
ball,  and  the  stupid  jumping-man  with  the  sawdust 
in  his  body;  and  how  neither  of  them  had  answered 
her,  though  she  had  asked  them  hundreds  of  times, 
"  Why  this  ?"  and  "  Why  that  ?"  The  recollection  of 
their  spiteful  obstinacy  brought  the  tears  back  to  her 
eyes,  and  she  again  began  to  sob. 

Then  the  old  man  laid  down  his  knife,  took  the 
child  on  his  knee,  and  stroked  her  hair  softly,  say- 

"You  are  quite  right,  Baldine.  Everything  has 
its  Why,  but  it  is  not  everything  that  tells  it  when 
you  ask.  One  must  find  it  out  one's  self.  Moreover, 
everything  does  not  cry  when  it  is  in  pain.  And  that, 
too,  is  for  the  best." 

"  Your  cart  cries,  grandfather,"  said  the  child, 
"  though  nothing  hurts  it.  Why  does  your  cart  cry 
so  much  ?" 

"It  cries  for  me,  Baldine.  When  I  enter  a  vil- 
lage, it  cries, '  Here  is  Featherhelm  !  He  sells  goose- 
feathers  for  the  town  beds !'  When  I  come  into  the 
town,  it  cries, '  Here  is  Featherhelm !  He  sells  goose- 
feathers,  and  buys  glass  pots  for  the  glass-works !' 
And  those  whom  it  concerns  understand  its  cry." 

"  Yes,  but  why  does  it  cry  all  along  the  forest, 
where  it  concerns  nobody?" 

"Ah,  there  it  cries  more  than  ever  for  me,  whom 


40  BALDINE. 

its  cry  then  epccially  concerns.  But  that  you  can- 
not understand." 

"  Why  not,  grandfatlier?  Oli !  you,  too,  arc  like 
the  ball — you  will  tell  nie  nothing." 

Featherhelm  got  up  and  went  to  the  place  in  the 
forest  where  the  freshly  turned-up  earth  betrayed  the 
grave  of  the  ball.  With  a  little  stick  he  dug  the  ball 
out  of  the  earth,  and  carried  it  to  Buldine.  Tiien  he 
took  out  his  knife,  and  stabbed  the  ball  with  it.  The 
ball  emitted  a  faint  sigh ;  the  wounded  spot  deepened 
inward,  the  perverse  plumpness  was  flattened  slowly, 
and  sunk  and  shrunk,  till  at  last  nothing  was  left  of 
it  but  a  deformed  gray  rag.  Baldine  held  her  eyes 
wide  open,  and  fastened  them  on  the  thing. 

"  It  is  not  alwaj's  good,"  said  Featherhelm,  "  to 
speak,  and  tell  one's  Why ;  and  therefore  many  things 
arc  dumb.  That  is  best  for  them.  One  has  to  find 
out  many  things  by  one's  self;  which  is  good  for  us 
also.  You  cannot  do  this  yet,  Baldine,  but  all  is  for 
the  best.  Now  go  and  help  Zenz  to  peel  the  pota- 
toes. You  understand  that  very  well,  and  they  taste 
much  better  when  you  have  helped  to  prepare  them." 

After  these  words  Featherhelm's  head  sunk  upon 
his  breast.  He  was  answering  to  himself  the  question 
asked  by  Baldine,  why  the  cart  cried  so  specially  for 
him  in  the  long  forest,  where  its  cry  concerned  no 
one  else. 

The  child  had  begun  to  walk  slowly  towards  Zenz, 
as  the  grandfather  bade  her;  but  she  stopped  ab- 
ruptly half-wav,  paused  a  moment,  and  going  back 
to  the  old  man,  softly  stroked  his  coat-sleeve,  while 
her  eyes  overflowed  with  silent  tears.     It  hurt  her 


BALDINE.  41 

to  sec  him  so  sad.  When  Featherhehn  looked  up 
and  saw  her  standing  there,  he  did  not  send  Iier  away 
again,  but  lifted  her  once  more  on  to  his  knees,  and 
said, 

"  Has  it  ever  happened  to  you,  Baldine,  to  lose 
something  that  was  very  dear  to  you  ?" 

"  Oil  yes,  grandfather — the  little  white  cock !  You 
know,  the  rat  caught  him." 

"  A}-,  1  remember !  When  that  happened,  I  found 
you  hero  beneath  the  pine-tree,  lying  on  the  ground 
and  sobbing.  Well,  you  see,  I  once  had  a.  daugliter. 
When  she  was  as  small  as  you,  she  looked  just  as 
you  do  now.  I  delighted  in  her — how  much  I  can- 
not tell  you — and  my  wife,  your  grandmother,  also. 
Then  she  grew  up,  and  our  joy  grew  with  her. 
When  she  was  grown  up,  she  married  the  glass-cut- 
ter, Sepp.  He  was  the  best  man  in  the  village,  and 
the  most  skilful  cutter  in  the  glass-works.  These 
two  people  were  your  mother  and  father,  child. 
Then  you  came  into  the  world.  But  the  Lord  our 
God  was  sparing  at  that  time.  To  you  ho  gave  life, 
and  from  your  mother  he  took  it  away.  Your  grand- 
mother could  not  live  without  her  daughter,  and  she 
soon  followed  lier.  After  the  burial  of  your  moth- 
er your  father  began  to  cough  constantly,  and  often 
he  clutched  at  his  breast.  Ho  and  others  knew 
what  that  meant.  Tlie  surgeon  spoke  about  the 
lungs,  but  they  call  it  here  the  glass-cutter's  malady. 
The  splinters  of  glass  which  spring  off  in  the  cutting 
fly  about  in  the  air  by  thousands,  and  the  glass-cut- 
ters breathe  tiiem  in.  That  scratches  and  cuts  them 
inside  the  chest,  but  so  finely  that  at  first  they  do 


43  BALDINE. 

not  feel  it.  Later  on,  little  by  little,  it  begins  to  feel 
like  a  thousand  knives  inside  them,  and  they  die  of 
it  slowly.  The  glass-cutter,  Sepp,  he,  too,  was  finally 
delivered.  But  he  did  not  look  on  deatii  as  a  deliv- 
erer; he  suffered  much;  yet,  in  spite  of  his  pain,  he 
was  always  sighing, '  Oli,  that  I  might  once  more  see 
the  furnace  heated,  and  so  lay  up  yet  a  little  more 
money  for  my  child  !'  And  he  worked  on  till  the 
day  of  his  death.  He  did  not  live  to  see  a  new  fur- 
nace heated.  Tiien  there  were  only  you  and  I.  But 
Zonz  came  to  live  with  ns,  because  she  also  had  no- 
body in  tiie  world,  and  was  alone  like  ns.  After 
this,  when  I  was  driving  my  cart  along  through  the 
forest,  I  would  have  liked  to  lie  upon  the  ground,  as 
you  did  when  the  little  white  cock  died,  and  weep — 
about  many  things.  But  meanwhile  the  cart  would 
have  stood  still,  and  that  would  have  been  a  thou- 
sand pities.  If  the  grandfather  had  wept  for  those 
Avho  were  dead,  his  living  granddaughter  would  have 
cried  for  bread.  So  I  restrained  my  trouble  till  the 
day  comes  when  it  will  throw  me  down  entirely. 
There  will  be  time  enough  for  it  all  when  I  can 
never  rise  again.  I  kept  it  to  myself,  and  laughed, 
and  made  jokes  with  the  people  I  met;  for  a  pleas- 
ant face  is  best  for  trade.  1  let  my  cart  cry  for  me, 
and  busied  myself  about  the  customers  it  brought 
me,  and  the  beech-mushrooms  growing  for  me  in  the 
forest.  Sometimes,  it  is  true,  when  the  cart  cries  in 
too  heart-rending  a  tone  for  those  beneath  the  earth, 
the  water  comes  into  my  eyes.  That  is  not  good, 
because  then  I  cannot  see  the  mushrooms ;  and  they 
are  precious  to  me,  for  I  have  bought  the  right  to 


BALDINE.  43 

gather  them  at  the  rate  of  three  dollars  a  jear.  The 
cart  soon  liiids  this  out,  and  it  begins  to  cry  in  its 
sharpest  tones, 'Baldine!  think  of  Bald  inc.  Feather- 
hehn !'  Then  I  take  a  firmer  hold  of  it,  and  my 
sight  grows  clear  again.  All  is  for  the  best.  Only 
one  must  learn  to  understand  it,  be  it  dumb,  or  cry 
it  never  so  loudly  !" 

Thus  the  time  passed  away  for  Baldine  in  asking 
and  hearing,  till  the  day  came  when  the  cart  again 
shrieked  up  the  hedgeway.  Then,  after  many  long 
and  longer  days,  it  came  crying  back  again.  And 
so  things  went  on  variably  till  the  summer  was 
over.  Dnring  the  winter  the  cart  slept  its  winter 
sleep.  Featherhelm  cut  and  carved  and  hammered 
and  glued  his  treasure-troves  together,  and  Baldine 
sat  looking  and  listening.  AVhen  spring  came,  the 
first  cuckoo  and  the  cart  cried  together  in  the  forest 
quarter,  but  the  cuckoo's  voice  was  the  soonest  tired. 

Baldine  still  hears  the  cart  when  the  grandfather 
lias  disappeared  below  the  upland,  while  the  cuckoo 
has  long  been  silent.  She  knows  now  that  the  good 
cart  cries  for  the  grandfather.  She  knows  also  that 
other  dumb  things  have  their  language;  only  one 
must  find  it  out,  as  the  grandfather  said.  She  no 
longer  asks  "  Why  ?"  of  all  the  silent  things  and 
dumb  animals.  She  looks  at  them  a  long  time,  and 
then  she  knows  it  of  her  own  accord.  She  has 
watched  the  squirrels  in  the  tops  of  the  pine-trees; 
and  since  then  she  understands  very  well  what  the 
sunbeams  are  about.  They  play,  just  as  the  squir- 
rels do.     All  the  golden  lights  climb  up  and  down 


44  BALDINE. 

the  stems,  spring  for  pure  merriment  from  bongli  to 
bough,  and  hide  themselves  in  the  tree-tops  covered 
with  leaves,  through  which  only  a  lurking  sparklet 
peeps  pertly  here  and  there.  Then  they  chase  one 
another  from  one  tree  to  another,  and  scamper  like 
mad  across  the  clearing. 

But  in  their  sport  the  sunbeams,  like  the  squirrels, 
are  shy  of  Bald  inc.  They  do  not  venture  in  to 
where  she  sits  under  the  branches  of  the  old  pine. 
For  them  its  aspect  is  too  melancholy,  and  they  only 
dance  about  it.  There  their  choral  revel  glides  round 
and  round  the  maiden  gayly,  but  never  nearer  to  her 
than  the  length  of  her  own  shadow — a  black  phan- 
tom, blackest  where  the  glory  seems  most  bright,  al- 
ways present  between  the  sunlight  and  herself,  and 
always  isolating  her  from  the  glittering  Fairy  King 
that  flees  from  its  approach,  and  fades  beneath  its 
touch.  If  she  stretches  out  her  hand,  the  sunbeams, 
like  the  squirrels,  spring  back  frightened  from  the 
shade  it  throws  upon  them  ;  and  the  dark  image  of 
that  out-stretched  hand,  which  is  her  own,  rests  sharp- 
ly printed  on  the  golden  ground. 

From  Zenz,  too,  Baldine  has  learned  so  much,  by 
watching  her  when  she  speaks  with  her  fingers,  that 
now  she  also  understands  the  ants,  and  their  whole 
system  of  house-keeping  between  the  pine-tree  roots. 
She  studies  them  daily,  and  knows  what  trouble 
they  give  themselves  to  put  all  in  order,  and  keep 
everything  clean,  as  Zenz  does  in  the  forest  cottage. 
They  sometimes  roll  little  round  white  things  in  the 
sun  backward  and  forward ;  just  as  Zenz  rolls  the 
bread  before  putting  it  in  the  oven.     Sometimes  two 


BALDINE.  45 

of  tlieiii  approach  each  other,  and  converse  by  means 
of  little  tlireads  upon  their  heads,  which  they  move 
to  and  fro.  They  embrace  and  fondle  and  bow,  and 
bid  each  other  farewell  with  these  threads,  which  are 
just  like  the  speaking  fingers  of  Zenz.  But  they 
quarrel  also,  and  beat  one  another.  Zenz  never  does 
that ;  it  is  only  the  bad  boys  in  the  village  that 
do  it. 

The  ants,  the  snails,  the  butterflies,  and  all  the 
dumb  creatures,  are  sometimes  glad  and  sometimes 
sorry;  and  they  all  have  fine  threads  on  their  heads, 
with  which  they  speak  without  a  word,  as  Zenz 
speaks  with  her  fingers.  Baldine  knows  all  this 
quite  well. 

But  at  home  she  knows  One  who  is  also  dumb, 
but  never  glad,  always  sorry.  That  is  our  Lord  God, 
who  hangs  upon  the  cross  in  the  corner  of  the  room, 
high  above  the  table.  The  cross  is  of  black  wood, 
and  fastened  to  it  is  the  white  God.  He  cannot 
even  speak  with  His  fingers,  for  both  hands  are 
nailed  to  the  cross.  The  drops  of  blood  run  down 
over  His  forehead  and  breast,  from  His  hands  and 
feet.  His  face  is  verj^  pale  and  mournful ;  one  can- 
not look  at  Him  without  weeping. 

Once  Baldine  climbed  upon  a  chair,  and  thence 
on  to  the  table,  to  look  at  Him  closely ;  but,  when 
quite  near.  He  looked  even  still  more  mournful. 
Then  Baldine  leaned  her  cheek  against  His  bleeding 
arm,  as  at  other  times  she  used  to  lean  it  against  the 
grandfather's  coat -sleeve,  and  wept.  She  stroked 
the  pale,  worn  cheeks,  and  said  through  her  sobs, 

"  Poor  God !  be  not  so  sad,  dear  God  !" 


46  13ALD1NE. 

But  He  remained  still  as  sad  as  ever,  and  did 
not  smile,  as  her  grandfather  always  did  when  she 
stroked  his  sleeve.  Then  she  grew  angr}'  at  the 
nails, which  hurt  Ilis  hands  and  feet;  and  she  tore 
and  tugged  at  them  till  her  cheeks  were  glowing, 
her  curls  all  tumbled,  and  her  little  fingers  bleeding. 
The  grandfather  once  found  her  in  this  condition. 
It  was  a  long  time  before  she  could  be  quieted ;  but 
he  told  her  then  that  the  good  God  heard  all,  even 
if  He  did  not  answer,  and  that  He  was  only  sad  be- 
cause He  had  taken  upon  himself  to  bear  the  sor- 
rows of  all  mankind. 

Since  that  time  Baldine  often  climbs  up  on  the 
table,  and  sits  before  the  sad,  pale  face.  The  blood- 
less lips  remain  always  dumb,  the  eyes  staring,  the 
fingers  motionless;  but  she  knows  that  he  hears  all. 
Everything  which  at  other  times  she  tells  her  grand- 
father is  confided  to  the  dumb  God  when  the  grand- 
father is  not  at  home.  Has  she  any  sorrow  ?  She 
weeps  before  Him.  He  is  so  good,  the  grandfather 
has  told  her.  Has  she  any  wish  ?  Of  Him  she 
craves  it  —  caressingly,  or  with  a  wild  impatience. 
The  doctor  can  do  everything  when  somebody  is 
ill ;  but  the  dumb  God  is  yet  more  mighty  than  the 
doctor.  All  that  the  sunbeams,  dancing  round  the 
pine-tree,  or  the  moonbeams,  hovering  about  her 
bed,  suggest  to  Baldine's  fancy  —  all  she  has  ever 
thought  or  dreamed  of — He  can  do. 

One  evening  Featherhelm  came  home  very  weary ; 
so  weary  that  he  could  not  get  up  the  next  morn- 
ing. Baldine  sat  by  his  bed  and  talked  to  him,  be- 
cause he  could  not  talk  to  her.     The  old  story-tell- 


BALDINE.  47 

ing  had  come  at  last  to  an  end ;  the  old  storj-teller 
was  worn  out. 

Zenz  went  to  fetch  the  doctor ;  and,  when  she 
brought  him  back  with  her,  Baldine  laughed  and 
leaped  for  joy.  Now  all  was  well!  To-morrow 
her  grandfather  would  be  able  to  get  up  and  go 
with  her  into  the  forest  to  look  for  mushrooms. 
The  doctor  was  there,  and  he  could  do  all. 

But  the  grandfather  did  not  rise  next  day,  as  Bal- 
dine had  expected,  and  he  could  scarcely  speak. 

When  the  doctor  came  again,  a  little  hand  convul- 
sively clutched  his  own,  and  squeezed  his  fingers  till 
they  ached.  It  was  Baldine's.  She  looked  reproach- 
fully np  to  him,  and  cried, 

"  Why  don't  you  give  the  bitter  water  to  the  grand- 
father ?  AVhen  you  gave  it  to  me  it  made  me  able  to 
get  up.  You  can  do  all,  and  yet  you  do  nothing! 
There  you  let  grandfather  lie — look  at  him — nnable 
to  rise  or  speak  !    Give  him  the  bitter  water,  please !" 

The  doctor  smiled,  and  said,  comfortingly, 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  will !" 

She  loosed  his  hand,  and  he  gave  Featherhelm  a 
bitter  w^ater;  but  it  could  not  have  been  the  right 
one,  for  Featherhelm  did  not  speak  a  word  all  day. 
At  nightfall  he  said,  smilingly,  to  Baldine, 

"All  is  for  the  best.     Only,  to  understand  it — " 

But  what  he  was  about  to  say  remained  unsaid, 
for  he  became  suddenly  silent.  And  so  he  rested — 
as  the  pine-tree  outside  in  the  forest,  as  the  sunbeams 
playing  round  it,  as  the  sad  God  above  in  the  corner 
— dumb  forever !  The  last  audible  human  word  in 
the  child's  world  had  died  away. 


48  BALDINE. 

The  doctor  came  to  look  after  the  dead.  Baldine 
threw  on  hiin  a  look  of  the  most  glowing  hatred. 
Till  he  came,  she  would  not  leave  her  grandfather, 
but  now  she  went  out;  nor  did  she  enter  the  house 
again  till  the  doctor  had  left  it  and  was  far  away. 
From  that  time  forward  she  avoided  him,  and  when- 
ever, in  the  after-years,  tliey  met  by  some  untoward 
chance,  not  a  word  would  slie  say  to  him. 

For,  oh  the  detected  imposture!  He  could  not 
do  all — not  even  a  little;  he  had  let  her  grandfather 
die !  His  image  in  her  soul  was  overthrown,  shat- 
tered, annihilated — a  thing  collapsed  and  shrivelled 
up,  like  the  ball  stabbed  by  the  grandfather's  knife 
— nothing  left  of  it ! 

And  Baldine  threw  the  doctor  away  forever — 
threw  him  to  the  deformed  gray  rag,  and  to  the 
jumping-man  with  sawdust  in  his  body. 


CHAPTER  II. 


Years  arc  gone  by  since  then.  Baldine  has  grown 
up  alone  with  the  dumb  God  and  the  dumb  Zenz. 
But  at  last  Zenz  also  has  ceased  to  speak,  even  with 
her  fingers.  She  is  dead  ;  and  Baldine  has  taken  her 
dumb  God  with  her  to  the  saw-mill  high  up  in  the 
forest. 

There  swift  feet  and  young  arms  are  wanted. 
The  miller  and  his  wife  are  old.  They  find  it  more 
and  more  difficult — sometimes  quite  impossible — to 
get  through  all  the  work  there  is  to  do  in  the  mill, 


BALDINE.  49 

and  about  the  stable  and  the  house,  and  the  forest 
meadow  above,  and  the  potato-field  below  in  the  val- 
lej.  They  have  no  need  to  go  on  working;  for 
though  the  mill  is  not  their  own  property,  but  be- 
longs, like  everything  else  in  that  part  of  the  coun- 
try, to  the  master  of  the  glass-works,  they  have 
lived  up  there  for  forty  years,  and  laid  by  an  honest 
penny  for  a  rainy  day.  They  could,  therefore,  stop 
working  and  retire  from  business  altogether  if  they 
pleased,  but  working  has  become  to  them  like  breath- 
ing: if  it  ceased,  their  life  would  stop. 

The  old  miller  is  bus}-  every  day,  from  early  dawn, 
in  the  saw-mill,  and  his  M'ife  in  the  house.  Baldinc 
lends  a  hand  here  and  there,  wherever  she  finds  any- 
thing to  do. 

At  dinner  and  supper  all  three  sit  together  in  the 
miller's  parlor,  but  nobody  speaks.  The  two  old 
people  have  lived  there  for  forty  years  quite  alone, 
and  what  wonder  if,  by  degrees,  they  have  at  last 
forgotten  how  to  talk  ? 

But  there  is  also  something  to  be  seen  in  that 
whitewashed  room  which  may  have  made  them  si- 
lent long  ago.  Against  the  middle  of  the  wall,  op- 
posite to  the  window,  stands  an  odd  little  bit  of  old 
furniture ;  it  is  a  child's  chair.  By  the  side  of  it 
is  a  glazed  cupboard,  and  in  the  cupboard  a  doll,  a 
child's  cap,  and  some  little  shirts  and  socks  —  all 
clean,  but  yellow  from  age.  There  is  nothing  else 
in  all  that  part  of  the  clean,  bright,  tidy  room.  From 
all  the  household  fixtures,  and  all  the  furniture  in 
daily  use,  the  child's  chair  and  the  cupboard  are  set 
apart  like  an  altar.  The  whole  room  itself  seems 
4 


50  BALDINE. 

to  be  tliere  only  for  their  sake ;  as  for  their  sake,  also, 
the  musing  silence  of  the  old  couple,  when  the  four 
eyes  gleaming  under  their  white  locks  are  turned 
towards  the  little  chair  that  stands  there  so  still  and 
empty. 

Baldine  thinks  that,  just  as  formerly  the  grandfa- 
ther with  his  cart,  so  now  the  old  miller  and  his 
wife  let  the  forest  brook  cry  for  them,  when  it 
plunges  loud  over  the  mill-wheel,  or  murmurs  low 
beside  the  floodgate. 

Baldine  had  been  accustomed  to  silence  from  her 
childhood.  It  had  been  lier  sole  companion  in  the 
days  when  her  grandfather  was  away  with  his  cart, 
and  in  the  years  afterwards,  when  he  was  gone  for- 
ever, and  she  lived  alone  with  Zenz.  In  those  days 
she  did  not  often  leave  the  lonely  forest  cottage, 
with  its  dumb  God  and  the  dumb  Zenz.  The  peo- 
ple of  the  village  she  had  long  ago  thrown  to  the 
ball,  with  the  jumping-man  and  the  doctor.  They 
had  taken  no  interest  in  the  illness,  death,  and  burial 
of  her  grandfather,  nor  in  those  of  Zenz.  Both  were 
too  poor  to  be  objects  of  the  least  interest  to  those 
village  folks  who  were  so  much  better  off.  And  at 
Zenz  they  used  to  laugh  ill-naturedly,  making  sport 
of  her,  and  mockingly  imitating  her  finger  language. 
The  children  especially  were  never  tired  of  play- 
ing malicious  pranks  upon  the  poor,  dumb,  helpless 
creature.  Baldine  had  not  forgotten  all  this.  She 
never  forgot  anything. 

Later  on,  whenever  she  came  to  the  village,  the 
boys,  now  grown  up,  would  nod  and  smile,  and  try 
to  chat  with  her.     They  even  left  other  girls  to  run 


BALDINE.  51 

after  lier  and  tell  her — what  M"as  true — that  she  was 
the  prettiest  girl  in  all  that  part  of  the  country. 
Ever^'where,  in  admiring  tones,  the  cry  went  after 
her,  "  Baldina  !"  "  Paulina !"  "  Palina !"  according  as 
each  accommodated  her  name  to  his  own  pronunci- 
ation. But  it  mattered  not  how  they  pronounced  it, 
no  response  did  any  of  them  get  from  her.  She  did 
not  laugh,  she  did  not  look  angrj',  she  did  not  even 
look  up.  Gravely  and  silently  she  passed  them  with- 
out notice,  as  if  for  her  they  were  not. 

Just  as  little  did  she  notice  the  girls,  who  envied 
her  for  her  beauty,  and  therefore  made  spiteful  re- 
marks upon  her  poor  dress.  And  as,  in  spite  of  all 
invitations,  she  never  joined  the  Sunday  dance  in 
the  village,  all  the  young  men  came  by  degrees  to 
the  conchision  that  she  gave  herself  insufferable 
airs;  while  all  the  young  Avomcn  asserted,  on  the 
contrar}'',  that  she  was  too  ashamed  of  her  poverty 
to  look  at  her  betters.  Such  as  she  had  been  before 
she  went  to  live  at  the  mill,  she  continued  to  be  after 
she  had  taken  up  her  abode  there ;  and  as  she  in  her 
ways,  so  the  villagers  in  theirs,  remained  unchanged. 

For  a  while,  indeed,  many  an  enterprising  lad 
would  still  secretly  hang  about  the  mill  now  and 
then,  in  the  hope  of  a  word  with  her,  or  at  least  a 
look ;  but  at  last  they  gave  it  up,  and  nobody  tried 
any  more  to  speak  to  her.  Only,  they  stood  still 
when  she  went  past  them,  and  looked  after  her. 
Sometimes,  too,  they  followed  her  at  a  distance,  so 
that  Baldine  could  not  see  them,  and  listened  to  her 
song  while  she  was  cutting  grass  in  the  forest  for 
the  goats. 


53  liALDINE. 

She  had  a  singularly  strange  voice,  with  such  deep 
tones  in  it  that  no  girls  in  the  village  could  imitate 
her  sons:.  It  sounded  almost  awful  through  the  for- 
est,  and  nobody  who  had  once  lieard  it  could  ever 
forget  tlie  sound  of  it.  It  was  also  strange  that  she 
never  sang  any  of  the  songs  of  the  country  ;  neither 
the  tunes  nor  the  words  of  them  were  ever  heard 
from  her  lips.  Not  that  her  songs  were  foreign 
ones.  To  say  the  truth,  they  were  not  even  songs  at 
all.  Her  singing  was  a  kind  of  song  without  words. 
All  that  was  unspoken  in  her  loneliness  seemed  to 
flow  into  a  wild,  wordless  music  from  her  otherwise 
mute  lips. 

Of  whom  could  she  have  learned  such  song?  It 
was  a  strange,  man^'-toned  sound,  now  as  of  birds 
piping  on  the  branches,  now  as  of  the  forest  wind 
when  it  rushes  athwart  the  multitudinous  tree-tops 
with  the  moan  of  a  mighty  organ,  and  now  like  the 
low  buzzing  of  wild  bees. 

Up  at  the  saw-mill  the  brook  and  the  mill-wheel 
keep  holy  the  Lord's  Day, ceasing  from  their  labor; 
and  in  the  afternoon  the  whole  house  is  at  rest. 

The  miller  silently  smokes  his  special  Sunday  pipe; 
his  wife  silently  dusts  the  doll  and  the  child's  cap 
in  the  cupboard.  Baldine  leaves  the  mill-house  and 
goes  wandering  through  the  forest.  Fitful  and  faint, 
from  the  valley  below,  the  music  of  the  village  dance 
comes  trembling  to  her  ear;  but  she  does  not  stop 
to  listen  to  it.  The  miller's  black  dog  walks  behind 
her,  as  usual ;  for  wherever  Baldine  goes,  that  dog 
follows  her  like  her  shadow.     Over  moss  and  tree- 


BALDINE.  53 

roots  go  she  and  tlie  dog  togetlier,  till  tliej  reach  the 
forest  path  and  climb  up  it. 

At  the  top  of  the  path,  close  by  the  wayside  ditch, 
an  old,  old,  beech -tree  rises  from  the  lower  wood. 
The  trunk  of  the  tree  is  not  visible ;  for,  slanted 
round  about  it,  are  rows  of  wooden  planks,  some  of 
them  only  rough-hewn,  with  a  cross  rudely  cut  on 
them,  others  gayly  painted  and  decorated. 

These  are  the  so-called  ^'■dead-planks''''  of  the  vil- 
lage. Church  and  church-yard  lie  far  away  from  the 
forest,  only  to  be  reached  with  difhculty  by  rough 
mountain -paths  in  summer  and  isolated  by  snow- 
drifts during  the  long  winter.  For  this  reason  it  is 
the  custom  of  the  villagers,  when  any  of  them  dies, 
to  lay  the  dead  body  on  one  of  these  planks,  and  let 
it  rest  there  till  it  can  be  put  into  its  coffin  and  car- 
ried away  to  the  distant  graveyard  at  Oberau.  It  is 
thought  that  the  plank  is  consecrated  by  the  touch 
of  the  dead ;  and  when  the  body  has  been  removed 
from  it,  they  take  the  plank  to  the  forest  and  lean  it 
there  against  the  beech-tree. 

Those  who  care  to  think  of  the  dead,  but  cannot 
visit  their  distant  graves,  come  to  muse  or  pray  be- 
side the  dead-planks  on  which  their  loved  ones  were 
borne  to  their  long  sleep.  But  to  this  place  come 
also  many  others  who  are  not  concerned  about  lost 
friends  or  kindred ;  for  it  is  impossible  to  get  to  or 
from  the  village  without  passing  it;  there  is  no  oth- 
er way  across  the  mountains.  Thus,  nobody  is  suf- 
fered to  forget  the  dead  ;  for  the  dead-planks  stand 
at  the  wayside,  craving  from  every  passer-by  some 
recognition  of  their  presence — a  prayer,  an  uncover- 


54  BALDINE. 

ing  of  tlic  head,  a  brief  remembrance,  or  even  only  a 
pitying  glance. 

And  if  the  rongli-hewn  plank  of  the  poor  man, 
and  the  polished  and  painted  one  of  the  rich,  seem 
as  emblems  of  their  different  ways  through  life — 
rough,  hard,  and  joyless  for  the  one ;  smooth,  gay, 
and  easy  for  the  other — yet  all  the  planks  are  made 
of  the  same  wood,  as  all  the  lives  of  men  have  the 
same  destiny — to  suffer  and  to  die.  So  that,  rough 
or  smooth,  blank  or  colored,  each  dead-plank  might 
with  equal  truth  bear  this  inscription — 

"  At  my  birthday  as  man 
My  disquiet  began, 
And  it  lasted  till  now. 

"  Wouldst  thou  suffer  no  more? 
Follow  me;  when  all's  o'er, 
As  I  rest  so  Shalt  thou. 

"  From  the  pining  and  striving 
Of  the  dying,  called  living, 
Here  at  last  is  release, 

"Be  consoled:  hap  what  may, 
Thou,  too,  treadest  the  way 
That  hath  led  to  this  peace." 

Nor  is  this  all.  The  poor  souls,  say  the  folk  of 
the  forest,  suffer  in  Purgatory  just  so  long  as  upon 
earth  their  dead-planks  stand ;  but  the  planks  of  the 
rich  last  longest,  for  the  paint  upon  them  retards  the 
progress  of  their  decay. 

On  the  ground,  about  the  bole  of  the  beech-tree, 
lie  the  oldest  of  the  dead-planks,  crumbled  and  rot- 
ten.   They  who  once  cared  for  them  have  dealt  with 


13ALDINE.  55 

tlic  remembrance  of  the  dead  as  time  has  dealt  \YitIi 
these,  its  fading  tokens,  letting  it  fall  away  and  bo 
forgotten  ;  or  else  the  mourners  themselves  are  now 
dead,  and  their  own  planks  already  lean  against  the 
beech.  Thus,  one  row  of  planks  rests  on  the  re- 
mains of  those  which  stood  there  before  it,  as  one 
generation  rises  above  anotlier. 

Ealdine  likes  to  sit,  on  Sundays,  upon  the  stone 
before  the  beech.  The  dead-planks  of  her  parents 
have  long  ago  fallen  to  the  ground ;  those  of  her 
grandfather  and  Zenz  still  stand,  but  ah*eady  they  are 
beginning  to  give  way  at  the  base.  The  spirits  of 
the  old  man  and  the  old  woman  hover  round  the 
spot,  and  doubtless  understand,  without  words,  what 
l>aldine  is  thinking  and  feeling  and  dreaming  as  she 
sits  upon  that  stone.  Without  words,  also,  Ealdine 
understands  what  tlic  dead  whisper  to  her,  and  what 
the  brook  nuirmurs,  and  what  meaning  there  is  in 
the  song  of  the  bullfinch  and  the  cry  of  the  sparrow- 
hawk,  while  she  garlands  the  two  dead-planks  which 
are  so  dear  to  her  with  the  W'ild  flowers  she  has  gath- 
ered in  the  forest.  Then  she  begins,  in  that  deep  mel- 
low voice  of  hers,  the  strange  song  without  words, 
which  no  one  can  forget  who  has  once  heard  it  by 
chance  ;  a  song  heard  only  when  the  singer  is  un- 
seen ;  for,  like  the  forest-bird  above  her,  at  the  sight 
of  a  living  face,  or  the  sound  of  a  living  footstep,  she 
is  mute. 

There  came,  as  the  days  went  by  in  this  still  way, 
a  busier  time,  when  Baldine  ran  to  the  dead-planks 
only  to  hang  up  the  garlands  she  had  woven  on  her 
wa}',  and  return,  Avithout  loitering,  to  the  mill.     For 


56  BALDINE. 

wheel  and  water  enjoyed  no  longer  their  Sabbath 
rest. 

The  master  of  the  glass-works  had  long  been  med- 
itating how  he  might  tnrn  to  better  profit  the  splen- 
did old  forest  he  possessed  upon  the  Griinberg.  The 
timber  there  was  magnificent,  but  the  transport  of 
it  to  the  nearest  market  was  so  difficult  and  circui- 
tous that  he  could  make  nothing  of  it.  After  fre- 
quent consultation  with  some  of  his  neighbors  in 
tlie  town,  he  at  last  went  off  in  search  of  more  scien- 
tific advice ;  and  when  he  returned  he  brought  with 
him  a  sunburnt  man  who,  after  one  shrewd  look  at 
the  forest,  was  able  to  settle  exactly  what  ought  to 
be  done  with  it. 

Signor  Yico — that  was  the  man's  name — had  a 
well-experienced,  sharp  eye  for  cases  of  this  sort; 
and  he  could  see  at  a  glance  things  to  whicli  the 
learned,  looking  througli  tlieir  scientific  spectacles, 
were  blind.  He  was  not  learned  himself,  but  he  was 
an  old  hand  at  such  work.  For  years  he  had  col- 
lected, every  spring,  at  his  home  in  Lombardy,  a  num- 
ber of  strong  young  men,  w'hom  he  took  with  him 
northward,  wherever  there  were  railways,  roads,  or 
dams  to  be  made,  a  rock  to  be  blasted,  a  river-course 
to  be  regulated,  or  a  swamp  to  be  drained.  In  all 
work  of  this  kind,  the  Italians  displayed  a  remark- 
able skill ;  they  laid  hold  of  everytliing  at  tjie  right 
end,  and  tliey  were  diligent  and  easil}'^  satisfied.  Lead- 
ing, moreover,  more  temperate  lives  than  their  north- 
ern neighbors,  they  were  able,  every  autumn,  to  bring 
liome  considerable  sums. 

Signor  Vico  was  the  Impresario  of  this  travelling 


BALDINE.  57 

industrial  company.  lie  spoke  tlie  most  liorribly 
broken  German,  but  it  was  jnst  good  enough  for  in- 
telligible bargains  with  his  foreign  employers  about 
work  and  wages ;  and  his  talent  for  languages  made 
Iiim,  during  the  working  season,  the  general  interpret- 
er on  all  occasions  between  his  Italians  and  the  peo- 
ple of  the  country.  Moreover,  he  was  chief  staif- 
officer,  commander-in-chief,  commissary-general,  in- 
spector-general, and  factotum  universal  of  his  army. 

His  wife,  a  lively  olive-colored  little  woman,  with 
sparkling  black  eyes,  had  a  warm  heart  and  a  kindly 
hand.  She  adroitly  tempered  the  stern  despotism  of 
her  husband ;  diverted  his  angry  grumblings  from 
the  culprit;  gave,  behind  his  back,  here  and  there  an 
advance  of  wages ;  healed  the  sick  with  home-made 
physic;  tended  the  wounded;  and  patched  the  dam- 
aged coats  witli  her  own  kind  fingers.  Having  no 
children  of  her  own,  she  regarded  all  tlie  young  work- 
men as  such.  To  the  supremacy  of  this  motherly 
kind-hearted  infiaence  even  her  husband's  energetic 
nature  gave  way.  Signora  Vico  knew  the  ways  and 
habits,  the  heartaches  and  love  affairs,  the  hopes  and 
cares,  of  all ;  and  she  chattered  about  tliem  with  each, 
under  the  large  workmen's  hut  in  the  evening  lei- 
sure hours. 

Thus  the  hearts  of  all  were  drawn  to  her,  and,  it 
must  be  added,  their  stomachs  also ;  for  she  it  was 
who,  over  the  open  fire,  in  the  enormous  kettle  which 
always  accompanied  the  army,  prepared  for  them 
their  general  meal — the  daily-eaten,  ever  newly  rel- 
ished, and  by  all  beloved,  '•'■  2yolenta  P"* 

She  alone  knew  how  to  cook  it  exactly  after  the 


58  BALDINE. 

home  tradition,  with  plenty  of  the  proper  cliecse  in 
it,  so  that  during  the  enjoyment  of  that  repast  every 
one  of  thera  could  fancy  himself  at  home  again  in 
beautiful  Lorabardy.  The  first  who  laid  down  his 
wooden  spoon  involuntarily  began  singing  some 
sweet  Italian  song;  the  second  in  his  turn  took  up 
the  tune,  and  so  on,  till  the  whole  group  was  singing 
in  chorus,  while  Signora  Yico  beat  time  with  her 
mighty  spoon  upon  the  polenta-kettle.  Signer  Yico 
upon  these  occasions  sat  throned,  apart  from  his  sub- 
jects, and  smoked  with  great  dignity  his  Cavour  cigar. 
I3ut  even  he  could  not  refrain  from  humming  a  deep 
bass  accompaniment,  though  he  did  \t  pianissimo, 
not  to  lower  his  dignitj'. 

After  a  single  visit  to  the  Griinberg,  Signer  Vico 
entered  the  parlor  of  the  master  of  the  glass-works, 
and  explained  to  him,  in  his  dreadful  German,  the 
conclusion  at  w'hich  he  had  arrived.  It  was  like  the 
egg  of  Columbus.  "  The  brook  plunges  down  the 
side  of  the  mountain.  Why  let  it  plunge  to  no  pur- 
pose? Why  use  human  hands  and  oxen,  when  the 
brook  can  do  the  work?  Why  should  the  brook 
only  stroll  and  saunter  for  its  own  pleasure,  instead 
of  working  like  all  the  rest  of  the  world?" 

Signer  Vico  went  on  asking  these  very  pertinent 
questions,  till  he  had  worked  himself  into  a  violent 
iit  of  anger  against  the  idle  brook ;  and  clinching 
his  brown  fists,  he  shook  them  at  it  out  of  the  win- 
dow. Why  make  a  tedious,  fatiguing,  circuitous 
cart-road  in  over  so  many  zigzags  up  to  the  brow  of 
the  Griinberg  ?  Why  go  to  the  expense  of  employ- 
ing oxen   for  heavy  traffic  on  such  a  road  ?    The 


BALDINE.  59 

brook  has  a  ready-made  road  of  its  own,  along  which 
it  takes  its  pleasure  daily,  without  any  useful  object 
in  view.  Signer  Vice  w'ill  bring  liis  workmen,  who 
have  just  finished  the  railway- works  in  the  town. 
They  shall  partly  regulate  and  considerably  improve 
the  course  of  this  idler,  remove  some  bits  of  rock  that 
obstruct  it,  establish  a  reservoir  on  the  height  with  a 
floodgate,  fell  the  trees,  throw  the  collected  timber 
into  the  standing  water,  open  the  floodgate,  and — 
"  Fuori  di  qua  !  Out  with  him  !  Forest  and  water 
move  on  ;  at  first  adagio,  then  ajiimo,  coraggio! — 
piu  presto  ! — then  j)restissi7no,  and — via  di  qua  !  Be 
off  with  you  !     Bon  voyage  /" 

Signer  Vice  accompanied  this  animated  harangue 
by  imitative  gestures,  which  represented  the  behavior 
of  the  wood  in  the  water ;  now  springing  up  and 
down  the  room,  faster  and  faster,  now  stooping  lower 
and  lower,  till  he  cowered  upon  the  floor;  which  last 
expressive  posture  distinctlj'  signified  that  the  tim- 
ber had  arrived  below  at  the  glass-works.  Thus  con- 
vincingly explained,  the  feasibility  and  advantage  of 
the  project  were  so  evident  to  the  master  that  he 
willingly  assented  to  it, 

A  few  days  later  the  Italiaas  made  their  entry 
into  tlie  village,  stared  at  by  its  astonished  denizens 
as  if  they  were  a  troop  of  wild  beasts.  Signora  Yico 
especially,  with  her  yellow  face  and  sparkling  eyes, 
was  an  apparition  which  struck  terror  to  the  hearts 
of  all  beholders  Avhen  they  saw  her  stirring  the  enor- 
mous polenta-kettle.  They  were  not  long  in  arriving 
at  the  unanimous  conviction  that  she  was  a  witch; 
but  the  first  suspicions  of  that  dreadful  fact  were  ex- 


60  BALDINE. 

cited  by  tlie  strangeness  of  the  animal  that  drew  the 
little  carriage,  in  which  she  made  her  entry  into 
the  village.  This  creature  seemed  half  a  horse  and 
half  an  ass,  and  was  only  known  to  the  inhabitants 
of  the  forest  by  hearsay,  like  the  dragons  and  winged 
serpents  of  popular  tradition. 

Among  the  village  youths  the  whole  train  pro- 
voked much  scornful  laughter,  malicious  looks,  and 
significant  shrugging  of  shoulders.  They  themselves 
wore  the  same  sort  of  clothes  as  their  fathers  and 
forefathers  had  worn  before  them  ;  for  the  remote 
forest  and  its  folk  are  tenacious  of  old  traditions. 
But  now  there  catne,  skipping  and  dancing  among 
them,  lads  with  high,  broad-brimmed  felt  hats,  and 
blood-red  kerchiefs  round  their  necks — some  of  them 
even  wore  red  shirts !  The  village  maidens,  howev- 
er, more  tolerant  of  novelties,  were  only  all  eyes  and 
blushes  for  the  interesting  strangers.  The  comely, 
bold  brown  faces,  the  black  locks  and  beards,  the 
bright,  dark  eyes,  and  the  strong  figures  of  these 
new-comers,  presented  a  pleasing  contrast  to  the  sal- 
low features  of  a  race  stunted  by  the  glowing  oven, 
the  pounding-house,  and  the  polishing-whecl  of  the 
glass-works. 

Next  morning  the  Italians  were  already  at  work  on 
the  Griinberg.  Signer  Yico,  stationed  on  the  brow 
of  the  hill,  his  chin  resting  on  Iiis  staff,  was  giving 
his  orders  in  a  loud  voice;  while,  by  the  open  fire 
below,  Signora  Yico  was  watching  over  the  polenta- 
kettle.  Between  these  two  poles  of  its  diurnal  mo- 
tion the  little  new  world  was  in  full  swing,  and  its 
brown  people  bestirred  themselves  as  brisk  and  busy 


BALDINE.  61 

as  an  ant's  nest.  After  four  weeks  tliey  were  ready 
to  risk  an  experiment.  The  floodgate  was  opened. 
'"'"Fuori  dl  qudP''  cried  Signer  Yico;  and  below  the 
liill  the  signora  greeted  the  arriving  tree-trunks  with 
a  far  resounding  ^'■Evviva  /'^ 

And  this  is  how  it  came  to  pass  that  the  forest 
brook  which  drove  the  saw -mill  had  no  more  rest 
than  his  brother  of  the  Griinberg ;  for  Signer  Vico 
kept  a  sharp  lookout  on  all  idlers,  and  the  brook  was 
now  forced,  even  on  Sundays,  to  turn  the  wheel  that 
kept  the  saw  at  work  upon  the  loads  of  timber  sent 
down  to  it  from  the  mountain. 

Nor  was  this  all ;  for  Toniello,  who  was  the  Italian 
Impresario's  Jack-of-all-tradcs,  found  yet  more  work 
for  the  poor  mill-brook.  After  a  conversation  with 
the  master  of  the  glass-works,  at  which  Signer  Yico 
performed  his  customary  function  of  dragoman,  To- 
niello constructed  in  the  mill-brook,  just  under  the 
large  saw-mill,  another  water-wheel,  which,  by  means 
of  various  leather  straps,  put  in  motion  a  third  wheel 
with  chopping  teeth  that,  swift  as  lightning,  cut  into 
large  logs  for  the  glass-ovens  all  the  spoilt  timber 
that  was  unfit  for  boards  and  planks. 

Toniello  also  came  up  to  the  saw-mill,  and  pointed 
out  to  the  old  miller  many  things  in  the  machinery 
which  were  defective,  as  well  as  others  susceptible  of 
great  improvement.  Some  of  thein  the  miller  had 
already  noticed  himself,  but  he  now  became  aware 
of  faults  which  till  then  he  had  not  even  guessed. 
The  explanation  was  carried  on  by  means  of  gestures 
in  dumb-show  and  various  drawings,  which  Toniello 
sketched  rapidly  on  the  nearest  board.    If  the  miller 


62  BALDINE. 

could  not  understand  it  all,  Baldine  translated  tlio 
gestures  distinctly  into  words ;  for  she  understood 
the  language  of  the  arms  and  lingers,  having  learned 
it  thoroughly  from  Zenz. 

Toniello  did  not  rest  satisfied  with  disclosing  faults, 
he  also  undertook  to  remove  them.  The  master  had 
an  absolute  trust  in  him,  after  his  successful  estab- 
lishment of  the  second  sav/,  and  left  all  the  improve- 
ments to  his  discretion. 

In  the  evenings,  when  the  wheel  stood  still,  Toniel- 
lo used  to  set  about  this  work.  On  the  hearth  blazed 
cheerily  the  huge  pine-wood  tire;  the  miller  helped 
Toniello  as  well  as  he  could,  and  Baldine  looked  at 
the  young  man's  eyes  and  fingers,  interpreting  their 
signals,  ready  to  tell  the  miller  what  he  had  to  do, 
and  herself  giving  now  and  then  a  helping  hand. 

On  these  occasions, when  the  old  miller  lighted  his 
pipe,  he  thought,  as  he  smoked  it,  that  his  dead  boy 
Avould  have  been  just  old  enough  to  help  him  as  the 
stranger  at  his  side  was  doing.  He  contemplated 
Toniello  with  a  musing  eye,  and  wondered  whether 
liis  boy  would  have  looked  like  this  young  stranger. 
Then  he  shook  his  head.  Such  tall,  slender  figures 
were  not  to  be  found  in  the  forest  quarter ;  and  if 
any  of  its  native  youths  chanced  to  be  as  tall  as  the 
Italian,  none  had  a  frame  so  flexibly  and  finely  built. 
The  old  miller  thought  that  the  great  gentlemen  in 
the  town  must  move  their  feet  and  hands  like  this 
young  Italian, whose  graceful  gait  and  gestures,  small, 
well-cut  nose  with  sensitive  nostrils,  curved  mouth, 
and  high  forehead,  had  the  charm  of  a  refinement 
unfamiliar  to  the  old  man's  experience. 


BALDINE.  63 

So  strange,  indeed,  to  this  patriarch  of  a  flaxen- 
haired  race  was  the  blue -black  color  of  Tonicllo's 
flowing  locks,  finely  pencilled  eyebrows,  long  eye- 
lashes, and  small  uiustache,  that  again  he  shook  his 
head  despondingly.  His  son,  he  felt,  would  have 
looked  otherwise ;  yet  he  would  not  have  been  sorry 
had  the  lad  looked  just  like  this  stranger. 

Baldine  stood  all  the  while  between  the  two,  hush- 
ed and  thoughtful  as  was  her  wont,  in  the  glow  of 
the  blazing  pine-logs,  and  looked  fixedly  at  the  fin- 
gers, and  into  the  eyes  of  the  young  workman. 

Whe:i  at  last  things  were  so  far  in  order  as  not  to 
hinder  the  mill  from  working  on  the  morrow,  To- 
niello  sprang  up,  silently  pressed  the  miller's  hand, 
nodded  to  Baldine,  put  on  his  broad-brimmed  hat, 
and  wandered  through  the  darkness  down  to  the  vil- 
lage. His  clear  song  sounded  from  the  forest  path 
lip  to  the  miller  and  to  Baldine,  farther  and  farther 
o£f,  lower  and  lower  down,  till  at  last  all  was  still. 

Baldine  went  up -stairs  to  her  garret,  and  knelt 
down  before  the  dumb  God  on  the  old,  black  wood- 
en cross.  She  prayed  her  evening  prayer,  and  then 
went  to  bed.  It  seemed  as  if  sometliing  sang  to  her 
in  the  coining  on  of  sleep,  farther  and  farther  off, 
lower  and  lower  down,  till  all  was  still.  And  low 
to  herself  she  hummed  the  tune  of  that  distant  song, 
singing  it  without  words,  till  at  last  she  fell  asleep. 

The  miller  stood,  before  going  to  bed,  a  long  while 
musing  in  front  of  the  child's  empty  chair.  Then 
he  murmured,  shaking  his  head, "  He  would  not  have 
looked  like  that  young  man  I" 

Tonicllo  went  his  way  down  to  Signora  Yico.    He 


64  BALDIXE. 

was  her  great  favorite;  she  always  kept  liis  snpper 
for  him,  giving  him  into  the  bargain  a  tidbit  from 
lier  own.  Toniello  requited  the  good  little  woman 
Avith  sincere  attachment.  She  was  the  only  one  with 
whom  he  chatted  about  everything.  With  his  com- 
rades he  confined  his  intercourse  to  the  business  and 
hours  of  their  common  work ;  for  in  his  leisure 
lionrs  he  preferred  to  sit  alone,  thinking  out  ingeni- 
ous combinations  of  mechanism,  sketching  plans  of 
wheels  and  levers  that  could  act  upon  one  another, 
or  painting  in  bad  water-colors  flowers  and  animals 
which  looked  wonderfully  life-like.  On  Sunday  he 
usually  sat  an  hour  with  Signora  Yico,  and  then  dis- 
appeared— nobody  knew  where. 

The  other  Italians  spent  their  Sundaj'  at  tlie  inn. 
They  had  there  their  own  largo  table,  played  mora, 
sang  choruses,  and  made  a  great  bustle ;  but  did  not 
consume  much,  because  of  their  inveterate  frugality. 

Beppo  alone  was  the  consolation  of  the  innkeeper ; 
he  consumed  in  food  and  drink  all  that  he  earned 
during  the  week,  and  sometimes  even  more.  But 
he  was  also  a  cause  of  some  trouble  to  mine  host ; 
for  he  made  such  a  noise,  first  on  the  table  with  his 
fists,  then  on  the  ground  with  his  heels,  and  lastly 
with  his  throat,  whenever  he  got  a  chance  of  exercis- 
ing its  powers  of  sound,  that  in  his  presence  both 
villagers  and  Italians  were  obliged  to  speak  louder 
and  louder.  If  he  succeeded  in  his  endeavors  to  set 
the  whole  room  in  an  uproar,  the  noise  he  had  pro- 
voked only  furnished  a  deep  bass  accompaniment 
to  his  own  voice,  which  forthwith  shrilled  high  and 
loud  above  it.    When  he  had  thus  out-bawled  the 


BALDINE.  65 

loudest,  lie  began  to  feel  tolerably  satisfied,  but  not 
yet  quite  comfortable;  his  effervescence  needed  fur- 
ther vent  in  quarrelling  and  fighting,  for  which  he 
did  not  even  give  himself  the  pains  to  find  a  plausi- 
ble pretext.  If  the  nose  of  a  village  lad  did  not  ex- 
actly correspond  to  his  ideal  of  noses,  or  the  shape 
of  a  comrade's  beard  displeased  him,  that  was  enough  ; 
and  however  good-humoredly  his  sarcasms,  might  be 
taken  by  the  object  of  them,  Beppo  thought  himself 
deeply  offended.  To  revenge  his  wrong,  he  forth- 
with resorted  to  acts  of  violence ;  and  the  victim,  who 
had  understood  nothing  of  his  taunts,  was  promptly 
admonished  by  a  blow  that  he  had  unconsciously 
given  offence  to  Signor  Beppo. 

This  was  of  pretty  frequent  occurrence  when 
heads,  on  hot  summer  days,  had  been  heated  by 
drink ;  and  the  single  combat  generally  developed 
into  a  general  scuffle,  in  which  the  combatants  used 
as  weapons  the  beer  pitchers,  chairs,  and  stools.  In 
the  midst  of  this  hurly-burly  Beppo  moved  about 
like  a  fish  in  the  water.  It  was  his  element.  But 
he  was  only  perfectly  happy  when  he  could  stick  his 
knife  into  somebody. 

These  tastes  of  his,  and  the  zest  with  which  he  in- 
dulged them,  had  subjected  Signor  Vico  to  many  in- 
conveniences. The  Impresario's  wife  warned  him 
every  time  to  dismiss  Beppo,  whom  she  disliked  for 
his  want  of  heart  as  well  as  of  temper.  Signor  Yico 
agreed  with  her  that  Beppo  was  a  heartless,  ill-condi- 
tioned fellow,  and  an  incorrigible  agitator  and  brawl- 
er, besides  being  the  laziest  workman  and  greediest 
guzzler  and  guttler  in  his  whole  troop;  but  then 
5 


66  BALDINE. 

Beppo  was  also  his  brother's  son,  and  a  Yico  like 
himself.  So  the  Padrone  let  Beppo  stay  on,  and 
continue  his  disorderly  life,  till  one  of  his  tricks  with 
the  knife  got  him  into  trouble  with  the  local  author- 
ities, who  treated  him  to  a  short  term  of  imprison- 
ment. When  he  came  out  of  jail,  however.  Signer 
Vico  had  the  weakness  to  take  his  brother's  son 
again  into  his  employment;  and  the  old  life  began 
anew. 

Beppo's  ambition  was  to  subdue  the  men  by  his 
voice  or  his  knife,  and  the  women  by  his  looks.  His 
face,  which  had,  to  be  sure,  a  coarse,  bad  expression, 
was  disfigured  by  small-pox,  and  his  stout  figure  and 
restless  limbs  were  not  attractive;  but  he  thought 
himself  irresistible.  Whenever  he  caught  sight  of  a 
village  beauty,  he  kissed  his  hand  and  looked  Ian. 
guishingly  at  her;  nor  could  he  pass  by  a  young 
wench  without  chucking  her  under  the  chin,  or  put- 
ting his  arm  round  her  waist.  He  tried,  moreover, 
to  improve  his  appearance  by  wearing,  on  Sundays 
and  Feast-days,  a  frock-coat  which  he  had  bought  in 
the  town,  second-hand,  from  a  dealer  in  old  clothes. 

When  he  contemplated  his  own  image  thus  at- 
tired— on  his  head  the  broad-brimmed  Calabrese  hat, 
with  a  cock's  feather  stuck  jauntily  into  it,  and  his 
crooked  legs  incased  in  high  boots  that  came  up  to 
his  knees ;  round  his  hips  a  blood-red  kerchief,  and 
round  his  neck  an  orange-colored  one ;  a  rosy  waist- 
coat over  his  crimson  Garibaldi  shirt;  and,  sur- 
mounting all  these  adornments,  the  black  frock-coat 
— he  could  only  compassionately  think  of  the  wom- 
en whose  heads  he  was  going  to  turn. 


BALDINE.  67 

One  of  them,  at  least,  should  be  made  happy,  one 
of  tliem  he  would  kindly  notice ;  and  she  was  the 
girl  at  the  saw- mill.  She  was  unquestionably  the 
fairest  maiden  in  the  neighborhood  all  round,  with 
her  heaven-blue  eyes  and  her  golden  tresses.  When 
he  came  to  think  of  it,  he  had  never  seen  a  girl  like 
her;  not  even  when  he  bought  his  frock-coat  in  the 
town.  Yes,  she  alone  was  worthy  of  him ;  and, 
to  say  the  truth,  if  he  rightly  remembered,  he  had 
bought  that  coat  only  for  her  sake. 

Caparisoned  in  this  fatal  garment,  he  passed  all 
his  leisure  hours  prowling  about  the  mill-house. 
There  he  had  opportunities  enough  of  seeing  the 
girl, but  she  was  never  alone;  the  miller  or  his  wife 
was  always  with  her,  and  very  often  Toniello.  He 
was  convinced,  however,  that  her  heart  had  absorbed 
liis  amorous  glances,  and  knew  how  to  value  them. 
To  an}'-  other  of  his  comrades  he  would  have  made 
it  as  clear  as  the  point  of  his  knife  th'at  lie  alone  had 
rights  over  the  girl  to  which  all  others  must  give 
way ;  but  Toniello  was  the  only  one  he  never  vent- 
ured to  attack.  Once,  indeed,  he  had  tried  to  draw 
a  knife  upon  that  young  man,  but  Toniello  liad 
wrested  the  weapon  from  his  hand,  seized  him  with 
his  nimble  arms,  and  thrown  him  to  the  ground  with 
a  shock  from  which  his  head  ached  for  several  days 
after. 

Beppo,  however,  understood  the  art  of  espionage 
and  ambuscade.  One  afternoon,  when  Baldine  was 
carrying  a  pail  of  milk  down  to  the  village,  he  sud- 
denly placed  himself,  with  legs  astride,  upon  the  for- 
est path.     As  she  approached,  he  began  his  wonted 


68  BALDINE. 

tricks:  kissing  liis  liand,  tossing  liis  arms  towards 
heaven,  and  slapping  that  part  of  his  body  wliich 
lie  supposed  to  be  the  residence  of  liis  heart.  Bal- 
dine  went  on  without  heeding  this  ridiculous  de- 
meanor, which  she  supposed  to  be  meant  for  some- 
body behind  her.  As  she  drew  nearer,  however,  she 
must  have  perceived  that  she  herself  was  the  object 
of  it,  for  Beppo  stood  across  the  path,  and  barred  her 
passage  with  his  out-stretched  arms. 

She  quietly  turned  aside  from  the  path  into  the 
forest,  and  tried  to  continue  her  way  between  the 
trees.  Beppo  sprang  after  her,  and  seized  her  right 
arm.  With  her  left  hand  she  had  to  hold  the  full 
milk-pail  steadily  on  her  head,  so  that  she  had  no 
other  weapon  than  a  haughty  look ;  but  for  that 
Beppo  did  not  care,  and  he  tried  to  put  his  arm 
round  her  waist. 

The  girl  drew  herself  up,  took  the  pail  from  her 
head,  and  poured  over  him  its  whole  contents.  For 
a  moment  he  was  staggered,  and  nearly  blinded,  by 
the  unexpected  douche.  But  his  wrath  only  in- 
creased his  desire ;  and  rushing  upon  Baldine,  he 
threw  his  arms  about  her  and  clasped  her  close. 

"  Beppo !" 

The  sound  of  his  own  name  rang  sharp  in  the  ras- 
cal's ear,  and  he  looked  up.  But,  in  the  storm  of 
his  passion,  the  glance  he  turned  upon  the  speaker 
•was  purely  mechanical ;  and  whether  or  not  he  rec- 
ognized Toniello,  whose  shout  it  was  that  ^le  had 
heard  —  what  was  Toniello,  what  all  the  world,  to 
him  at  such  a  moment? 

The  next  moment,  however,  he  lay  sprawling  on 


BALDINE.  69 

the  ground ;  and  as  he  instinctively  began  to  fum- 
ble at  his  knife,  his  wrist  was  clasped  with  iron  fin- 
gers, and  the  knife  wrested  from  him.  In  impotent 
rage  he  picked  himself  np,  and  ran  off  as  fast  as  his 
heels  could  take  him,  without  once  looking  behind 
liim. 

Toniello  gazed  for  a  while  after  the  discomfited 
Don  Juan,  and  then  turned  to  Baldine,  who  was 
standing  there,  pale,  with  a  strange,  dark  look  in  her 
deep  eyes.  There  was  something  intricate  in  the 
expression  of  her  brow ;  but  it  was  an  expression  of 
visible  pain.  Her  maiden  pride  had  been  hurt,  and 
Toniello  tried  to  console  her.  lie  pointed  to  the  re- 
treating Beppo,  and  laughingly  lifted  his  finger  to 
his  forehead  ;  Beppo  was  a  madman,  a  fool ;  what  he 
did  was  of  no  consequence.  Then  he  approached 
Baldine,  and  softly  touched  the  painful  wrinkle  be- 
tween her  eyebrows. 

At  once  the  girl's  forehead  grew  clear  and  smooth 
as  before,  beneath  her  golden  hair.  She  half  opened 
her  lips  to  say  a  word ;  but,  remembering  that  he 
could  not  understand  her,  she  closed  them  again, 
and  onl}'  a  smile  stole  gently  into  the  curve  of  their 
sweet  clasp.  Toniello  smiled  also.  Thus  they  stood 
a  moment,  both  of  them  silent;  then  each  nodded 
to  the  other,  and  Baldine  returned  with  her  empty 
milk-pail  to  the  mill,  and  Toniello  went  downward 
to  the  village. 

As  he  went,  he  sung  again  that  melancholy  na- 
tional song  which  had  found  its  way  to  Baldine's 
ear  along  the  silence  of  the  dark  night  air,  when 
Toniello  wa,ndered  home  from  the  mill — 


70  BALDINE. 

"Oh,  were  I  slumbering  deep 
In  death's  eternal  night. 
My  love  vfould  light  my  sleep, 
And  breathe  the  darkness  bright! 

"And  when  they  lay  me  low 
Upon  my  cold  death  bier, 
In  death  I  still  shall  know 
That  she  is  standing  near. 

"  If  o'er  my  grave  she  sighs 
One  little  sigh  of  pain, 
I  soon  shall  ope  mine  eyes, 
And  smile  on  her  again. 

"  But  if,  when  I  am  dead, 
My  love  her  smile  should  keep, 
Mine  eyes  will  ope  instead 
To  weep,  and  weep,  and  weep. 

"  Then,  if  she  whispers  low, 
'  My  love,  what  aileth  thee?' 
My  lips  will  ope,  I  know, 
And  answer,  'Pray  for  mel' " 

That  evening  Tonicllo  sat,  as  usual,  in  the  saw- 
mill, and  worked  with  the  miller.  Baldine  watched, 
as  heretofore,  tlie  speech  of  his  fingers  and  ejes ; 
and  when  he  looked  at  her,  she  smiled.  Her  smile 
was  meant  to  thank  and  assure  him  that  she  was 
no  longer  troubled  or  vexed  about  that  madman, 
Beppo. 

Nevertheless,  ever  after  her  encounter  with  Bep- 
po, she  made  the  miller's  black  dog  run  beside  her 
as  often  as  she  went  to  the  village;  whereas, before, 
she  had  only  let  him  accompany  her  in  her  lonely 
walks  through  the  forest,  where  there  was  no  fear 


BALDINE.  71 

of  his  falling  out  with  the  village  dogs,  with  whom 
he  was  not  on  good  terms. 

Toniello  continued  his  visits  to  the  mill.  After 
he  had  so  improved  its  machinery  that  everything 
worked  perfectly,  he  set  to  work  npou  a  new  piece 
of  mechanism — a  clock  which  was  to  be  put  in  mo- 
tion by  the  large  water-wheel,  with  the  help  of 
smaller  ones.  Toniello  bestowed  much  ingenuity 
and  care  upon  this  construction.  When  he  had 
completed  and  fixed  it  against  the  wall  of  the  saw- 
mill, the  clock  went  extraordinarily  well,  and  Bal- 
dine  always  regulated  her  work  by  it. 

But  Toniello  was  not  yet  satisfied  with  his  master- 
piece. Every  night  he  took  it  down  and  inserted 
into  it  new  little  wheels,  which  he  skilfully  con- 
nected with  the  old  ones.  For  every  hour  he  fash- 
ioned a  little  man  who  walked  out  on  a  board  at 
the  side  of  the  dial,  to  announce  the  fleeting  time. 
Then  he  constructed  a  dog,  just  like  the  miller's 
dog,  and  painted  him  black.  At  last  he  added 
chimes  to  the  clock — and,  in  fact,  it  seemed  as  if  liis 
work  would  never  be  finished. 

Sometimes,  when  he  was  at  work  npon  something 
that  did  not  require  all  his  attention,  he  would  begin 
singing  -with  his  fine,  clear  tenor  voice  the  songs  of 
his  native  land.  While  thus  singing,  he  glanced 
across  every  now  and  then  to  the  miller  and  Baldine, 
as  though  inquiring  if  they  liked  it;  but  whenever 
he  came  to  his  favorite  song,  the  melancholy  one  be- 
gmnmg  i<  oh,  -were  I  slumbering  deep 

In  death's  eternal  night," 

he  always  looked  down,  and  never  raised  his  eyes. 


72  BALDINE. 

Before  tliese  later  visits  to  tlie  mill,  lie  had  heard 
in  the  forest  the  strange,  wordless  song  of  Baldine, 
with  its  deep  tones  so  rich  in  variety  of  power; 
sometimes  suddenly  swelling  into  a  passionate  burst 
of  thrilling  sound,  and  then  trembling  away  in  faint 
silvery  notes  along  the  stillness  of  the  great  wood- 
land, lie  loved  singing, as  all  Italians  do;  and  he 
especially  loved  the  sound  of  an  alto  voice,  because 
that  was  the  voice  in  which  his  mother  had  sung 
to  him  the  songs  of  his  own  land,  and  it  is  more 
common  among  the  women  of  Italy  than  in  our 
northern  countries.  Once  (it  was  after  the  Beppo 
incident),  when  he  was  leaning  against  a  tree  and  lis- 
tening to  that  wonderful  wordless  melody,  its  capri- 
cious variations  suddenly  glided  into  the  soft  sad 
air  of  his  favorite  song — 

"  Ob,  were  I  slumbering  deep 
In  deatb's  eternal  nigbt, 
My  love  would  light  my  sleep, 
And  breathe  the  darkness  bright!" 

It  was  the  tunc  without  the  words,  of  course ;  but  it 
was  sung  in  a  voice  as  pathetic  as  the  words  them- 
selves. Toniello  stood  and  listened  long  after  the 
song  had  died  away.  But  since  that  day  he  never 
looked  up  when  singing  it  himself ;  he  was  afraid  of 
betraying  that  he  had  listened,  for  he  well  knew 
that  the  girl  only  sung  when  she  thought  lierself 
alone.  And  yet  an  irresistible  longing  to  hear  that 
song  once  more  from  her  lips  continually  tormented 
and  urged  him,  without  clearly  knowing  what  he 
was  about,  to  haunt  the  forest  ways,  where  Baldine 
used  to  wander  by  herself. 


BALDINE.  73 

Thus  it  liappened  that  ho  saw  her  standing,  one 
Sunday  afternoon,  near  the  dead -planks,  lie  was 
hidden  in  the  thicket,  and  tliere  he  waited  long  to 
liear  her  singing.  But  she  did  not  sing.  She  knelt 
a  while  before  the  planks,  and  then  sat  down  upon 
the  stone,  with  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands,  and 
her  head  stooping  forward  so  that  her  golden  hair 
streamed  down  over  her  fingers.  In  this  posture 
she  remained,  till  the  miller's  black  dog  laid  a  cau- 
tious, questioning  paw  in  her  lap,  and  looked  consol- 
ingly up  at  lier  with  his  good,  honest  eyes.  At  this 
she  rose,  stroked  the  head  of  the  dog,  and  moved 
towards  the  outskirts  of  the  forest. 

There  slie  lingered  a  while,  stooping  down  to 
pluck  the  flowers  at  her  feet,  or  standing  on  tiptoe 
to  strip  off  the  lowest  and  slightest  of  the  leafy 
branches  above  her  head.  With  what  she  thus 
gathered  she  made  two  garlands,  which  she  placed 
upon  the  two  dead-planks;  and  then  she  went  home 
again. 

But  all  the  way  home  she  did  not  sing. 

Toniello  waited  a  little ;  and  when  she  was  out  of 
sight,  he  went  up  to  the  old  beech-tree.  He  exam- 
ined all  the  planks,  especially  the  two  rough-hewn 
ones,  with  the  fresh  garlands  on  them ;  and  tliat 
night  he  asked  Signor  Yico  what  was  the  meaning 
of  the  beech-tree  and  the  planks. 

Signor  Yico  explained  it  all  to  him  ;  and  why 
some  of  the  planks  were  painted,  and  others  only 
rough -hewn.  "Rich  —  poor!"  w^ere  the  words  in 
which  he  summed  up  his  explanation  of  the  mat- 
ter; and,  with  his  strong  impulse  to  make  everything 


74  BAIiDINE. 

plain,  lie  pointed,  as  lie  said  them,  first  to  himself, 
and  then  to  Toniello. 

Ill  a  certain  sense,  however,  Toniello  was  richer 
than  Signer  Yico.  Tlie  Padrone  never  gave  him- 
self an  hour's  relaxation  from  his  survey  work:  but 
Toniello  the  next  morning  renounced  his  wages  for 
that  da}',  with  a  request  for  leave  to  go  to  Oberau, 
where  he  had  some  purchases  to  make. 

Signer  Vice  was  reluctant  to  spare  him,  for  his 
general  skill  in  all  departments  of  the  business  made 
him  a  trustworthy  substitute  for  the  Padrone  him- 
self in  the  supervision  of  many  of  its  details.  The 
Padrone^  however,  said  nothing,  but  in  dignified  si- 
lence scored  out  one  day's  work  from  the  wages  ac- 
count. Signora  Vice  had  meanwhile  surreptitiously 
slipped  some  victuals  into  the  pocket  of  her  favorite, 
who  was  well  upon  his  way  a  little  after  daybreak. 

At  noon  Toniello  reappeared  upon  the  brow  of 
the  hill,  laden  with  a  large  supply  of  paint-pots;  but 
after  this  he  must  have  stopped  somewhere  on  the 
road,  for  he  did  not  reach  the  village  before  night- 
fall. And  all  the  rest  of  the  week,  day  after  daj', 
he  was  off  again  before  sunrise,  while  all  the  camp 
was  still  asleep ;  returning,  however,  in  time  for  the 
beginning  of  the  day's  work. 

When  Baldine,  next  Sunday,  made  her  weekly  pil- 
grimage to  the  old  beech-tree,  she  was  greeted  by 
it  with  a  wonderful  surprise.  No  sooner  had  she 
reached  the  tree,  than  she  stopped  and  stood  motion- 
less before  it ;  her  figure  turned  into  stone,  and  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  bole  of  the  tree.  There  were 
her  two  dear  dead-planks,  leaning  against  it  in  their 


BALDINE.  75 

accnstotned  place ;  but  they  were  painted  white, 
their  edges  adorned  with  bhack  lines,  and  their  cross- 
es brilliantly  gilt,  and  freshly  decorated  with  little 
garlands  of  flowers. 

Baldine  crept  nearer  to  them.  Her  lips  were  pale, 
her  limbs  trembling.  She  looked  all  around.  There 
was  no  one  to  be  seen,  Long  she  knelt  and  prayed 
— longer  than  usual — at  those  reconsecrated  shrines. 
Then  she  went  slowly  homeward,  never  lifting  her 
eyes  from  the  ground. 

And  the  dog  followed  her  dejectedly,  for  she  took 
no  notice  of  him  that  day. 

Returning  to  the  mill,  she  found  Toniello  already 
with  the  niiller,  who  was  smoking  his  Sunday  pipe 
on  the  bench  before  the  house.  Toniello  was  hard 
at  work  on  the  construction  of  a  mechanical  cock, 
that  was  to  spring  out  of  the  clock-door,  and  flap  his 
wings,  when  the  clock  struck.  When  he  saw  Bal- 
dine, he  only  nodded  to  her,  and  then  kept  his  eyes 
obstinately  flxed  on  his  work,  while  he  went  on  sing- 
ing to  himself  in  low  tones. 

Baldine,  however,  went  straight  to  him,  and  stood 
before  him  so  close  that  he  was  obliged  to  look  up. 
About  her  tremulous  lips  hovered  the  same  smile 
which  had  sweetened  their  pensive  loveliness  after 
the  discomfiture  of  Beppo's  assault.  Toniello  feigned 
not  to  see  it.  He  again  took  up  his  knife,  but  han- 
dled it  so  clumsily  that  he  cut  his  finger.  He  tried 
to  continue  his  favorite  song,  which  the  arrival  of 
Baldine  had  interrupted;  but  the  words  stuck  in  his 
throat,  the  notes  came  false,  he  sung  out  of  tune,  and 
could  not  fjet  on. 


76  BALDINE. 

Then  Baldine  took  np  the  right  note,  clear  as  a 
bell,  and  sung  the  air  to  the  end.  Her  voice  trem- 
bled a  little,  for  it  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever 
snng  before  any  one ;  but  she  turned  her  back  to 
the  listener,  as  she  sung,  and  looked  far  away,  over 
the  hillside,  towards  the  beech -tree  and  the  dead- 
planks.  Still  singing,  with  averted  face,  she  went 
slowly  into  the  liouse ;  and  the  last  notes  of  her  song 
came  faintly  through  the  open  window  to  Toniello. 


CHAPTER  III. 


Next  evening  Baldine  does  not  sing,  even  to  her- 
self. She  is  sitting  by  the  brook  in  the  forest,  below 
the  mill ;  and  the  dog  lies  at  her  feet.  He  does  not 
lift  his  paw  to  touch  her  knee  and  remind  her  that 
they  must  go  home;  he  does  not  put  his  head  into 
her  lap,  nor  look  up  at  her  with  his  good,  honest  eyes, 
consolingly,  as  it  was  his  wont  to  do  when  she  was 
sad. 

And  yet  this  evening  her  sadness  is  heavy  and 
sore.  The  dog  does  not  care  for  it,  however:  he  lies 
there  motionless  and  callous,  for  he  is  dead.  With 
difficulty  he  has  dragged  himself  to  this  spot,  that 
he  might  die  at  her  feet.  A  strong  poison  must 
have  been  given  him,  for  his  agony  was  great  when 
he  looked  up  at  her,  with  his  dim  eyes,  for  the  last 
time. 

And  the  agonized  look  in  those  poor  dying  eyes 
Baldine  instinctively  associates  with  her  recollection 


BALDINE.  77 

of  a  strange,  vindictive  gleam  in  the  glowing  eyes 
of  Beppo,  whom  she  had  seen  a  few  hours  -before, 
prowling  about  near  the  mill. 

AVhcn  Toniello  arrived  at  the  mill-house  that  even- 
ing, the  old  miller  and  his  wife  tried  to  explain  to 
him,  by  various  signs,  the  fate  of  the  dog.  The  mill- 
er imitated  the  barking,  his  wife  the  dying.  Nei- 
ther of  them  had  much  skill  in  mimetic  art;  but  at 
last  Toniello  understood  them,  and  hastened  away  in 
the  direction  they  pointed  out  to  him. 

lie  found  Baldine  sitting  motionless,  and  staring 
at  the  dog.  Toniello  knelt  down,  lifted  the  dog's 
head,  and  stroked  him  compassionately.  The  dog 
liad  been  attached  to  him,  too,  with  a  touching  affec- 
tion ;  and  till  now  had  always  greeted  his  coming 
with  jumps  and  barks  of  joy. 

To  Baldine,  who  had  borne  her  own  sorrow  silent- 
ly, without  a  tear,  the  thought  that  Toniello  also  had 
lost  a  friend,  brought  fresh  grief ;  and  she  began  to 
sob.  Moved  by  her  tears,  Toniello  seized  her  hand, 
pressed  it  tenderly,  and  murmured, 

'■''  PoverinaP'' 

To  be  sure,  it  was  only  for  a  dumb  animal,  a  poor 
dog,  that  Baldine  was  weeping ;  but  Toniello  thought 
of  how  poor  she  was  herself,  and  how  lonel}' — of  her 
owMi  still,  joyless  life — and  of  how  the  dog  at  her 
feet  had  been  her  sole  intimate,  and  her  last;  the 
constant  companion  and  faithful  friend  of  her  seclu- 
sion ;  the  trusty  protector  of  her  lonely  forest  walks. 

'•''  PoverinaP'^ 

He  repeated  the  word  so  sorrowfully,  that  Bal- 
dinc's  tears  flowed  faster  than  before,  in  sympathy 


78  J3ALDINE. 

for  his  supposed  grief  about  the  dog.  Then  Toniel- 
lo  drew  her  softly  to  him,  and  stroked  lier  liair,  and 
wiped  away  the  large  tears  that  trickled  down  her 
cheeks.  He  leaned  her  head  against  his  breast,  and 
said  nothing  but  '"'■  Poverina  !  Poverina  T  and  that 
each  time  in  a  lower  tone. 

Baldine  looked  up,  and  saw  the  tears  standing  in 
his  eyes.  She  could  not  console  him  in  his  own  lan- 
guage, much  as  she  wished  to  do  so ;  but  through 
her  tears  she  smiled  on  his.  And,  because  it  had 
comforted  her  when  he  had  done  it  for  her,  she 
wiped  his  wet  eyes  and  stroked  his  hair.  Then  lie 
gratefully  put  his  arm  around  her  neck,  and  she  felt 
that  she  must  do  as  much  for  him ;  and  when  he 
softly  pressed  his  lips  to  hers,  still  more  softly  here 
returned  the  pressure. 

Baldine  had  much  to  say  that  night  to  the  dumb 
God,  up  in  her  little  garret :  and  Toniello  had  a  long 
talk  with  Signora  Yico,  who  was  ^n  experienced 
woman,  and  loved  him  like  a  mother. 

Next  day  the  signora  went  bravely  up  to  the  saw- 
mill, though  it  was  a  hard  and  a  long  climb  for  such 
a  fat,  short-legged  little  woman.  As  soon  as  she  got 
there,  she  asked  for  Baldine,  gave  the  girl  a  hearty 
kiss  on  her  cheek,  and  then  began,  in  broken  German, 
to  speak  to  the  old  couple  in  the  way  she  had  seen 
her  husband  do  it.  After  a  good  many  bewildering 
mistakes,  they  understood  at  last  that  she  had  come 
to  the  miller,  who  was  Baldine's  guardian,  with  a 
matrimonial  proposal  from  Toniello. 

She  also  made  known  to  them  that  Toniello  pos- 


BALDINE.  79 

scssed  a  little  farm  of  his  own  at  home,  which  he 
let  out  only  because  he  had  wished  to  see  the  world 
and  satisfy  his  craving  for  information  about  foreign 
things  and  countries.  As  he  had  no  parents,  this 
way  of  life  had  till  now  been  easy  to  him;  but  now 
he  wonld  return,  with  his  wife,  to  his  own  land,  and 
manage  the  farm  himself.  She  and  Signor  Yico 
would  miss  him  grievously,  for  Toniello  had  an  ex- 
cellent head  on  his  shoulders,  and  was  no  common 
w'orkman  ;  but  she  rejoiced  in  his  happiness,  as  if 
lie  were  her  own  son.  The  miller  and  his  wife  felt 
how  grievously  tliey  also  would  miss  their  Baldine; 
but,  like  the  talkative  little  lady,  they  were  glad  of 
the  maiden's  good-fortune.  The  signora  then  took 
her  leave,  with  two  hearty  kisses  to  Baldine;  and 
all  was  happily  arranged. 

After  their  betrothal,  Toniello  and  Baldine  used  to 
walk  together  to  the  old  beech-tree  and  sit  beside 
eacli  other  on  the  stone  before  the  dead-planks. 

As  a  blossom  that  grows  out  of  a  grave,  was  the 
growth  of  Baldine's  love ;  and  because  he  could  not 
tell  how  he  loved  her,  Toniello  sung  out  all  his  heart 
to  her  in  the  songs  of  his  own  land.  She  accompa- 
nied these  songs  with  the  music  of  a  voice  whose 
strains  were  deep  and  soft  and  full  as  those  of  a  vi- 
olin. "Words  she  had  never  sung,  and  those  that 
Toniello  sung  to  her  she  had  never  heard  before ; 
but  she  understood  all  they  were  meant  to  tell  her, 
and  her  frank,  fond  eyes  answered  with  loving  looks 
the  message  of  those  loving  words. 

Sometimes,  as  thus  they  sit  together  on  the  stone 
by  the  dead-planks,  she  caressingly  strokes  his  sleeve, 


80  BALDINK 

as  she  used  to  stroke  the  sleeve  of  her  grandfather 
when  she  was  a  child.  Bnt  all  this  is  not  enough  ; 
and  there  is  at  least  one  little  word,  which  she  knows 
so  well  how  to  utter,  in  every  conceivable  tone,  that 
it  is  forever  on  her  lips.  That  word  is  "Ton*" — 
the  beginning  of  his  soft  foreign  name. 

To  be  sure,  it  is  only  one  word  ;  and  that,  too,  a  lit- 
tle one.  But  the  birds  that  build  their  nest  about 
her  home  in  the  lonely  mill  have  also  only  one  little 
chirp  between  them;  and  listening  to  them  when 
they  talk  together  in  the  leaves,  Baldine  has  discov- 
ered that,  with  only  this  one  sound,  they  can  tell 
each  other  all  they  feel ;  and  that  according  to  the 
tone  in  which  it  is  uttered,  it  means  welcome  or  fare- 
well, joy  or  sorrow,  pleasure  or  pain,  or  even  the 
manifold  blissfulncss  of  love. 

So  slie  with  her  "  Toni !"  What  is  there  that  this 
poor  little  word  does  not  saj  for  her,  or  say  to  him  ? 
llow  proud  it  sounds  when  she  looks  up  at  Toniello ! 
IIow  humble  when  she  whispers  it  musingly  to  her- 
self!  How  grateful  when  he  brings  her  any  little 
gift!  IIow  fond,  when  to  him  she  gives  a  forest 
flower !  IIow  sweet,  how  inexpressibly  sweet,  when 
she  is  hanging  on  his  arm  and  listening  to  his  voice  I 

Meanwhile,  the  necessary  papers  had  arrived  from 
Toniello's  home.  Next  Sunday,  when  he  and  Bal- 
dine passed  by  the  dead-planks  in  the  forest,  it  would 
be  on  their  way  to  the  church  and  the  altar  at  Obe- 
rau.  Signora  Yico  had  prepared  the  wedding-feast, 
at  which,  of  course,  the  indispensable  polenta  would 
not  be  wanting.  The  whole  Italian  colony  wished 
to  make  it  a  splendid  festival.    Everybody  planned 


BALDINE.  81 

in  secret  some  surprise  for  Toniello.  The  standard 
of  excellence  was  who  should  make  the  greatest  noise. 
Gunpowder  played  an  important  part  in  all  these  re- 
joicings. Rusty  old  horse-pistols,  and  indeed  all  sorts 
of  old  fire-arms,  were  hunted  up ;  and  on  the  heights 
of  the  Griinberg  various  primitive  preparations  for 
fireworks  were  stored  in  readiness  for  the  occasion. 

Beppo  alone  remained  unsympathetic.  But  nobody 
minded  him,  for  it  had  been  decreed  that  in  a  few 
days  his  connection  with  the  company  was  to  come 
to  an  end.  Of  late,  his  quarrelsomeness  had  in- 
creased be^^ond  endurance ;  and  he  had  even  exhaust- 
ed the  forbearance  of  Signor  Vico.  Toniello  he  al- 
ways shunned.  Toniello  had  once  spoken  to  him 
about  the  worthless  fellow  who  had  poisoned  the  mill- 
er's dog;  but  he  turned  his  back  and  hurried  away, 
grinding  his  teeth  and  clinching  his  fist,  with  an  in- 
articulate growl. 

Toniello  took  no  further  notice  of  him,  but  Bal- 
dine,  whenever  the  thought  of  him  came  back  to 
her,  which  it  often  did,  was  haunted  by  a  vague  fear 
— not  for  herself,  but  for  Toniello.  It  was  for  this 
reason  that,  dreading  a  dispute  between  them,  she 
had  never  told  Toniello  of  the  many  times  she  had 
caught  sight  of  Beppo's  gloomy  eyes  peering  through 
a  thicket  as  they  passed,  and  felt  that  he  was  watch- 
ing them  when  they  walked  together  in  the  forest. 

The  last  time  this  had  happened  was  on  the  day 
before  their  wedding,  when  Toniello  came  for  a  mo- 
ment to  the  mill. 

He  only  came  to  tell  lier,  in  their  now  familiar 
sign-language,  that  he  had  sometljjng  to  do  at  tJie 
G 


83  BALDINE. 

Griinbcrg,  and  would  not  come  again  tliat  evening, 
60  that  she  must  go  to  bed  very  early,  to  be  ready 
next  morning  for  the  wedding  walk  to  Oberau. 
Which  last  injunction  he  explained  by  nodding  as  if 
asleep,  shutting  her  eyes  with  a  kiss,  and  rocking  her 
head  gently,  while  he  sung  to  her  in  these  words  the 
lullaby,  Vaite7ie  dormire — 

"  Sleep,  dear,  and  be  thy  slumbers  sweet! 
Of  violets  all  shall  be  thy  bed : 
Six  angels  watching  at  thy  feet, 
Six  angels  at  thy  head. 

"  Sleep,  dear,  until  the  morning-star 
Hath  opened  with  his  golden  key 
That  day,  of  all  the  days  that  are. 
The  dearest  day  to  me !" 

Toniello  went  on  to  the  Griinberg.  Signer  Vico 
had  been  speaking  to  him  about  some  obstruction, 
which,  he  said,  he  had  lately  detected  in  the  M-ater- 
course,  and  which  he  wished  Toniello  to  have  the 
credit  of  removing.  He  would  close  the  water-gate, 
and  shut  off  the  water  that  evening,  so  that  Toniello 
might  be  able  to  examine  the  bed  of  the  stream. 

This,  however,  was  only  a  pretence,  suggested  to 
her  husband  by  the  signora,  for  getting  Toniello  out 
of  the  way  during  the  final  preparation  of  the  fire- 
works, with  which  the  Italians  intended  to  celebrate 
the  eve  of  his  wedding. 

They  had  all  been  racking  their  brains  how  to 
manage  it,  till  the  signora  hit  on  this  notable  plan  ; 
and,  although  Signer  Vico  was  at  first  reluctant  to 
join  in  her  friendly  subterfuge,  which  he  thought  a 
little  beneath  his  dignity,  his  wife  had  so  effectually 


BALDINE.  83 

talked  liiin  over  that  he  ended  by  discharging  his 
part  in  it  with  a  zest  which  persuaded  Toniello  that 
the  Padrone^  whole  reputation  depended  on  the 
speedy  removal  of  the  pretended  impediment. 

So  Toniello  strolled  leisurely  up  the  bed  of  the 
stream.  The  water-gate  was  closed,  the  water-course 
dry,  and  empty  of  all  but  the  confused  heaps  of 
stones  that  strewed  its  rocky  channel.  Toniello 
paused  from  time  to  time  to  examine  the  banks;  and 
then,  shaking  his  head,  he  climbed  on  slowly.  No- 
where was  a  damaged  place  to  be  seen.  At  length 
lie  had  got  close  under  the  floodgate,  where  the  banks 
had  been  artificially  raised ;  but  here  also  he  could 
find  nothing  wrong,  though  he  carefully  examined 
the  spot. 

Once  he  thought  he  heard  a  creaking  above  liim. 
lie  listened,  and  looked  np ;  but  it  must  have  been 
only  the  dull,  angry  sound  of  the  imprisoned  waters 
behind  the  dam ;  all  around  was  still,  lie  glanced 
up  at  the  trees,  thinking  it  might  perhaps  have  been 
the  flutter  of  some  big  night-bird  in  their  boug'hs 
which  had  produced  that  strange  sound;  but  no, the 
branches  were  motionless. 

Then  he  thought  of  Baldine,  who  used  to  sing  like 
the  forest  birds  without  any  words,  and  wondered 
iiow  her  song  would  sound  when  she  had  learned 
the  words  sung  by  his  own  people  in  his  own  land 
— the  songs  of  that  home  which  would  so  soon  be 
hers  as  well  as  his. 

At  last  Toniello  thought  it  was  time  to  return ; 
and  he  looked  up  to  judge  how  far  the  evening  was 
advanced.     The  narrow  strip  of  sky  above  him  rip- 


84  BALDINE. 

pled  in  and  out  like  a  rose-colored  ribbon  tlirougli 
the  dark  branches  of  the  trees;  and  this  set  him 
thinking  of  the  glow  to-morrow  upon  Baldine's 
cheek. 

Suddenly  he  was  startled  by  a  tremendous  sound, 
like  a  mighty  thunder-clap,  just  above  his  head ;  and 
through  the  opened  floodgate,  back  into  its  old  chan- 
nel, came  rushing  and  roaring  the  whole  vast  mass 
of  the  emancipated  waters,  which  dragged  along  with 
them,  fiercely  tossed  and  jostled  in  their  headlong 
course,  all  the  logs  and  trunks  thrown  into  them 
above  the  dam. 

The  Italians  below  in  the  valle}',  who  had  also 
heard  this  sound,  supposed  that  Toniello,  having  dis- 
covered and  removed  the  alleged  obstruction,  had 
opened  the  floodgates,  in  order  to  try  the  effect  of 
his  work ;  and  they  concluded  that  he  would  soon 
be  back.  All  their  preparations  for  his  reception 
were  now  finished.  Baldine,  who  had  been  sum- 
moned on  some  slight  pretext,  was  sitting  with  Sign- 
ora  Vico  in  the  workmen's  hut ;  and  Luigi,  who 
was  the  swiftest  of  foot,  had  been  sent  to  fetch 
Toniello,  with  a  message  that  Signor  Vico  had  some- 
thing to  tell  him.  They  were  only  waiting  for  To- 
niello's  return,  and  their  thoughts  impatiently  fol- 
lowed Luigi  up  the  Griinberg. 

"  Luigi  must  now  be  half-way  up,"  they  said  to 
one  another.     And  then  again,  after  a  little  while — 

"  Surely  by  this  time  he  has  reached  Toniello,  and 
they  must  now  be  well  on  their  way  back.  It  is  not 
too  soon.     Let  us  begin  !" 

And   off  went  the  fireworks!  crackling,  fizzing, 


t 

BALDINE.  85 

popping,  blazing,  banging,  and  merrily  spouting  into 
the  dark  heaven  brilliant  showers  of  colored  sparks, 
while  the  drums  beat,  and  the  Italians  shouted 
^''  Eniviva  !" 

But,  on  the  height  above,  Luigi  was  lifting  from 
the  rocky  bank  a  man  stunned  and  crushed  by  the 
shock  with  which  the  whirling  waters  had  flnng  hira 
against  it.  The  shouts,  and  the  sound  of  the  beating 
drums  and  bursting  fireworks,  were  clearly  audible 
in  the  still  air  upon  the  height ;  and  the  glare  of  the 
rockets  and  bonfires  reddened  the  narrow  strip  of 
sky  from  w4iich  the  faint  ribbon  of  rose-colored  light 
had  long  since  faded.  All  these  tokens  of  rejoicing 
rose  up  to  the  man  who  M-as  lying  there  upon  the 
wet  moss.  They  were  all  addressed  to  him  ;  they 
were  all  for  his  sake ;  but  he  neither  saw  nor  heard 
them. 

At  last  Luigi  returned,  breathless,  panting,  with- 
out Toniello. 

The  shouting  and  shooting  suddenly  ceased.  There 
was  a  confused  low  buzz  of  troubled  voices,  and 
then  all  started  off  with  a  rush  to  the  Griinberg. 
Baldine  did  not  understand  what  was  the  matter, 
but  she  wrenched  herself  away  from  the  hands  of 
the  signora,  who,  trembling,  tried  to  hold  her  back. 

When  she  reached  the  height,  which  the  Italians 
liad  gained  already,  some  of  them  were  standing  in 
a  ring  round  something  which  she  could  not  sec  ; 
the  others  had  lighted  a  fire,  and  were  collecting 
about  it  a  number  of  large  branches. 

Were  these  preparations  for  some  special  bon- 
fire, she  wondered.     The  Italians  made  way  for  her, 


86  BALDINE. 

and  slie  found  herself  at  once  inside  the  ring.  In 
the  midst  of  it  a  wounded  man  was  lying  on  the 
ground,  motionless.  She  gazed  at  him  and  bowed 
above  his  face,  lower  and  lower,  till  her  bright  hair 
streamed  over  it.  Then  she  glanced  up,  with  a  trou- 
bled look,  to  the  faces  around,  as  if  asking,  "Is  this 
really  Toniello  ?     For  God's  sake,  say  no !" 

But  the  men  remained  silent.  Some  turned  aside 
to  brush  the  tears  from  their  ej'es,  while  the  others 
bent  still  more  busily  over  the  litter  they  were  mak- 
ing near  the  fire.  Baldine  knelt  beside  Toniello. 
She  did  not  weep,  nor  move,  nor  lift  her  eyes  from 
his  face,  till  they  put  him  on  the  litter.  Then  she 
rose  slowly,  as  if  wearied  to  death,  and  silently 
pointed  out  to  the  bearers  the  way  down  to  the 
mill. 

They  followed  her  directions ;  and  as  she  walked 
beside  the  litter — just  as  in  by-gone  days  when,  a 
child,  she  used  to  walk  by  the  side  of  her  grandfa- 
ther's cart — she  sometimes  stooped  and  touched  ca- 
ressingly Toniello's  sleeve.  The  moon  lighted  the 
forest-path,  and  no  one  spoke  a  word. 

When  they  got  to  the  mill-house,  they  carried  To- 
niello, in  obedience  to  Baldine's  mute  instructions, 
up  to  her  chamber,  and  laid  him  on  her  bed.  Sign- 
ora  Vico  was  there,  with  her  little  medicine-chest. 
She  made  them  all  leave  the  room,  undressed  Toni- 
ello, and  then  called  Baldine  to  him.  Life  was  not 
yet  entirely  flown.  He  breathed  faintly,  but  could 
not  raise  his  eyelids. 

Towards  morning  the  doctor  and  the  curate  ar- 
rived from   Obera"u ;  and  with  them  many  people 


BALDINE.  87 

from  the  village.  Baldine's  chamber  was  entirely 
filled.  The  people  outside  the  house  were  talking 
in  low  tones,  and  those  inside  spoke  only  in  whis- 
pers, while  the  doctor  examined  Toniello's  wounds; 
but  all  were  asking  the  same  question— 

"  IIow  could  the  accident  have  happened?  IIow 
was  it  possible?  Could  Toniello  have  loosened  the 
sluice-gates,  without  knowing,  while  he  was  examin- 
ing the  bed  of  the  watercourse  ?" 

Baldine  had  turned  from  the  bed,  when  the  doctor 
approached  it.  She  heard,  as  in  a  dream,  the  whis- 
perers round  her  discussing  all  these  possibilities,  as 
she  stood  by  the  open  window  staring  at  the  forest — ■ 
where,  all  at  once,  she  seemed  to  have  seen  something 
in  the  distance,  for,  with  a  loud  crj^,  she  stretched 
forth  her  arm,  and  exclaimed,  "  Beppo !" 

All  shook  their  heads.  Beppo  was  a  bad  fellow, 
but  not  so  bad  as  that!  Moreover,  he  had  left  the 
neighborhood  the  day  before,  and  taken  leave  of  all 
before  he  went  away. 

But  Baldine  did  not  heed  these  incredulous  prot- 
estations; she  repeated  several  times  her  emphatic 
exclamation  of  "  Beppo !  Beppo !"  and  when  the  doc- 
tor, turning  to  the  assembly,  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
she  smiled  bitterly.  She  had  known  it  —  ah  yes, 
long, long  ago! — that  he  could  do  nothing  for  those 
who  are  at  death's  door.  He  had  let  her  grandfa- 
ther die;  and  him  and  his  science  she  had  long  ago 
contemptuously  dismissed,  as  since  then  so  many  oth- 
er things,  to  the  limbo  of  detected  lies. 

One,  however,  she  still  knows,  in  Whom  there  is 
help  at  all  times,  and  for  all.      That  is  the  dumb 


88  BALDINE. 

God  on  the  black  cross.  She  had  learned  to  speak 
to  Him  withont  reserve  or  doubt,  when  He  still 
looked  down  on  her  from  the  corner  of  her  little 
room  in  the  forest  cottage ;  and  she  had  done  so,  day 
and  night,  ever  since  He  had  been  hanging  above 
the  table  in  her  garret  at  the  mill-honse.  All  that 
she  had  borne  and  suffered  so  silently,  all  that  was 
hidden  away  in  her  yonng  breast — its  great  heart- 
sore,  its  humble  joy — all  this  she  had  trustfully  laid 
bare  to  His  sad  eyes ;  and  He,  that  could  do  every- 
thing, knew  all.  His  lips  are  mute,  and  His  hands 
are  motionless;  but  His  love  and  power  are  not  as 
human  lips  that  lie,  and  human  hands  that  fail,  and 
He  will  save  Toniello. 

So  she  stands  before  the  crucifix  with  lifted  looks 
and  supplicating  hands,  and  lips  that  murmur  unin- 
telligible words. 

A  faint  sigh  reached  her  ear. 

She  ceased  to  pray,  and  ran  to  the  bedside.  To- 
niello had  opened  his  eyes  and  was  looking  at  her. 
She  sunk  on  her  knees  beside  him,  and  softly  stroked 
his  arm  in  her  old  childlike  way.  The  one  poor  little 
word  she  had  so  often  said  to  him  before,  mcekl}'', 
humbly,  heartily,  was  all  she  could  say  to  him  now, 
in  the  anguish  of  her  last  hope. 

"  Toni !"  she  whispered,  bending  over  his  face,  and 
smiling. 

He  must  have  heard  that  word  and  seen  that  smile ; 
for  he  too  smiled  and  whispered, 

"Oh,  were  I  slumbering  deep 
In  death's  eternal  night, 
My  love — " 


BALDINE.  89 

But  tliere  the  whisper  died  awaj'.  His  ejes  closed 
again,  and  a  shadow  passed  across  his  face. 

The  doctor  signed  to  the  curate  to  come  for- 
ward. 

Baldine  started  up,  rushed  to  the  table,  sprung  upon 
it,  and  stood  before  the  crucilix. 

"Save  him,  O  God!  dear  God!"  she  murmured, 
fervently. 

The  curate,  at  Toniello's  bedside,  was  muttering 
the  prayers  for  the  dying. 

"  Save  him,  O  God !"  cried  Baldine,  with  a  heart- 
broken wail,  which  she  repeated  again  and  again, 
louder  and  louder,  wilder  and  more  wild.  She  did 
not  pray  any  longer ;  she  stormed,  she  raved,  and 
threatened. 

"He  is  gone!"  whispered  the  doctor  to  the  cu- 
rate ;  and  the  other  murmured  calmly, 

"  Lord,  be  merciful  to  the  poor  soul,  and  receive 
him  into  Thy  heavenly  kingdom  !" 

Then  Baldine  furiously  tore  the  crucifix  from  the 
wall,  and  held  it  close,  with  both  hands,  before  her 
face.  Her  eyes  looked  deep  into  the  eyes  of  the  im- 
age on  the  cross,  and  once  more  her  lips  repeated 
that  piercing  wail. 

It  was  a  dreadful  and  a  terrible  cry,  and  for  years 
and  years  afterwards  it  haunted  the  ears  of  those 
who  heard  it. 

With  the  cross  still  in  her  hand,  she  rushed  to  To- 
niello.  Now  at  last  he  must  recover!  The  dumb 
God  was  not  like  the  worthless  doctor,  and  He  would 
make  all  well  again  ! 

"  Toni !"  she  whispered. 


90  BALDINE. 

But  he  did  not  look  np,  and  on  his  face  the  sliadow 
remained  unchanged. 

"Toni!"  Baldine  repeated,  and  clasped  her  arm 
about  his  breast,  and  laid  her  head  upon  his  heart ;  but 
it  beat  no  more. 

Toniello  was  dead. 

Once  again  that  dreadful  cry  ! 

And  then,  after  a  silence  which  no  one  dared  to 
break,  Baldine  rose,  with  tearless  e^'es  and  a  bitter, 
disdainful  smile  upon  her  lips.  All  the  melancholy 
softness  of  her  features  was  turned  into  the  hardness 
of  frozen  ice. 

She  deliberately  lifted  the  crucifix  high  above  her 
head,  and  dashed  it  against  the  wall,  from  which  the 
broken  wood  flew  splintered  in  all  directions. 

The  priest  covered  his  head  and  hurried  out  of  the 
room.  The  villagers  hastily  followed  him.  Their 
religion  had  been  insulted,  their  superstition  alarmed  ; 
and  around  the  house  uprose,  upon  a  hundred  voices, 
the  ominous  cry  of  ancient  days,  "Stone  the  blas- 
phemer !  stone  her !" 

The  popular  indignation  extended  even  to  him  for 
whose  sake  the  sacrilege  had  been  committed.  No 
villager  accompanied  the  funeral  procession  of  the 
Italians.  The  dead-plank  of  Toniello,  placed  accord- 
ing to  the  usages  of  the  place  against  the  beech-tree 
in  the  forest,  was  removed  the  next  morning.  And 
the  curse  ran  backward,  excommunicating  the  pre- 
ceding generation  ;  so  that  with  Toniello's  dead-plank 
those  of  Zenz  and  Featherhelm  likewise  disappeared. 

Baldine,  amid  execrations,  was  carried  away  by 
Sijrnora  Vico. 


BALDINE.  91 

The  miller's  people  had  loved  her  well ;  but  they 
belonged  to  the  old  forest  race,  which  clings  fast  to 
its  old  reverence  for  its  old  God,  and  they  wonld  not 
harbor  the  blasphemer  another  night  beneath  their 
roof. 

The  priest  preached  next  Sunday  at  Oberau  a 
moving  sermon  on  that  strange  event,  and  the  Church 
condemned  her  with  deliberation,  as  the  people  had 
already  condemned  her  with  haste.  If  the  signora 
ever  suffered  Baldine  to  be  seen  at  the  door  of  the 
little  house  where  they  now  lived  together,  every  one 
crossed  to  the  other  side  of  the  road,  as  if  flying  from 
an  infected  person  ;  and  the  village  boys  had  always 
stones  in  their  pockets,  ready  to  throw  if  they  caught 
sight  of  her. 

Baldine,  however,  was  utterly  callous  to  all  these 
demonstrations.  She  did  not  even  perceive  them. 
Even  of  what  was  said  to  her  by  the  friends  with 
whom  she  lived,  she  seemed  scarcely  conscious.  She 
was  not  ill,  but  she  looked  like  a  person  who  had 
gone  through  a  long  and  wasting  illness.  In  her 
face  there  was  a  waxen  hue,  and  in  her  eyes  a  glassy 
stare. 

Signora  Yico  was  kindness  itself  to  her,  and  so  was 
the  signora's  husband.  With  his  assistance  Toniello 
liad,  after  his  betrothal  to  Baldine,  so  arranged  his 
affairs  as  to  secure  to  her  his  little  property  in  Lom- 
bardy,  in  the  event  of  his  death.  But  as  Baldine 
could  not  manage  this  property,  and  was  unwilling 
to  live  there,  Signer  Vico  exerted  himself,  through 
friends  of  his  upon  the  spot,  to  dispose  of  it  advan- 
tageously on  her  behalf;  and  the  produce  of  the  sale. 


93  BALDINE. 

which  he  handed  over  to  her,  was  sufficient  for  the 
modest  requirements  of  her  future  maintenance. 

She  learned  the  success  of  his  efforts  with  appar- 
ent indifference,  and  signed,  without  reading  them, 
the  papers  which  Signora  Yico  put  before  her. 

The  signora,  however,  had  devoted  her  whole  heart 
to  this  poor  girl,  and  it  was  her  wish  that  Baldine 
should  accompany  her  and  her  husband  back  to  Italy. 
The  villagers  of  the  Griinberg,  who  were  stupid  and 
pitiless,  would  be  the  death  of  her  if  she  remained. 
The  signora  herself,  moreover,  childless  as  she  was, 
longed  to  have  some  one  about  her  whom  she  could 
love  as  her  child. 

Baldine,  to  whom  she  explained  all  this,  nodded 
silently.  Baldine  would  have  given  the  same  silent 
assent  had  they  proposed  to  lay  her  living  in  the 
grave;  it  was  her  way  of  answering  everything. 

Meanwhile  the  autumn  was  far  advanced,  and  the 
Italians  were  preparing  to  return  to  their  own  land. 

It  was  rumored  about  the  village  that  Baldine 
would  go  with  them,  and  the  villagers  were  glad  of 
it.  Bad  harvests,  sickness,  and  fires  were  less  to  be 
feared  when  the  taint  of  sacrilege  was  thus  removed 
from  among  them.  All  the  children  had  their  pock- 
ets full  of  stones,  and  the  grown-np  folks  their  mouths 
full  of  maledictions,  for  the  departure  of  the  Italians. 

But  the  signora  was  not  only  kind-hearted,  sho 
was  also  prudent,  and  before  daybreak  had  contrived 
to  get  Baldine  away  on  foot.  Signor  Vico,  smoking 
with  wonted  dignity  his  Cavonr  cigar,  was  the  only 
person  seen  beside  her,  as  she  sat,  with  her  polenta- 
kettle,  on  the  little  wagon,  drawn  as  before  by  the 


BALDINE.  93 

unnatural  beast  which  had  so  greatly  excited  the 
suspicions  of  the  villagers  on  the  day  of  her  arriv- 
al. Tliis  was  a  bitter  disappointment  to  the  boys 
with  stones  in  their  pockets,  and  the  raule  had  to 
pay  for  it. 

The  Italians  followed  behind  the  wagon,  shouting 
and  singing  louder  than  when  they  first  entered  the 
village,  whence  they  were  now  joyfully  returning, 
with  their  hardly  earned  wages,  to  their  own  beauti- 
ful country. 

Only  two  of  them  were  missing,  who  at  their  en- 
trance into  the  village  had  sung  with  them — the  bad 
Beppo  and  the  good  Toniello. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


"  11  Cartellone  !     11  Cartellone  r 

The  news-venders  roared  it  in  the  streets  and 
squares ;  the  loungers  in  the  cafes  cried  out  for  it 
till  they  were  hoarse;  and  in  all  the  saloons  of  Na- 
ples the  word  went  round  from  mouth  to  mouth. 
Crowds  collected  at  the  street-corners,  whispering, 
murmuring,  shouting,  about  the  gigantic  placard  in 
which  the  Impresario  announced  all  the  operas  se- 
lected for  the  Stagione,  and  the  names  of  his  artist 
troupe. 

This  was  "^7  cartellone,^''  the  greatest  event  of  the 
day. 

Among  the  artists  mentioned  on  its  list  were  some 
whose  names,  like  stars  of  the  seventh  magnitude, 


04  BALDINE. 

gleamed  only  in  a  pale  phosphoric  light,  when  looked 
at  through  a  powerful  telescope.  Others  were  dis- 
cernible through  spectacles,  and  some  even  visible  to 
the  naked  eye.  Then  came  a  few  whose  place  in  the 
operatic  firmament  everybody  knows ;  and,  finally, 
the  sun,  round  which  all  tlie  otlier  stars  revolve. 

This  sun  was  Signora  Iduni. 

Her  name  was  written  on  the  cartellone  in  letters 
three  times  as  big  as  all  the  others.  But  on  the  stage 
she  had,  as  yet,  been  seen  by  no  one.  One  does  not 
begin  all  at  once  with  tlie  sun.  When  he  rises,  the 
dazzled  gaze  can  see  no  stars;  the  eye  must  get  ac- 
customed by  degrees  to  the  increasing  brilliancy. 
For  which  reason,  only  the  little  telescopic  stars  ap- 
peared at  the  beginning;  and  at  these  the  public 
hissed  with  an  energy  belonging  only  to  the  South. 
That  was,  in  the  opinion  of  tlie  Lnpresario^  exactly 
what  the  public  ought  to  do.  The  sooner  he  tlirew 
a  victim  to  its  satirical  propensities,  and  the  more 
mercilessly  that  victim  was  mauled  and  mangled,  the 
sooner  would  the  public  get  tired  of  its  sport. 

The  Impresario  had  this  time  every  reason  to  be 
satisfied.  All  joined  in  the  whistling  and  hooting; 
the  public  was  full  of  life,  agitation,  and  interest. 
AVhen  the  greater  artists  made  their  appearance,  it 
had  grown  weary  of  whistling  and  hooting.  So  it 
rested  its  lips,  and  began  to  feel  a  pleasing  restless- 
ness in  the  palms  of  its  hitherto  inactive  liands. 
The  applause  increased,  the  large  opera-house  grew 
more  and  more  crowded,  the  Imj>resario  rubbed  his 
own  hands,  and  felt  that  the  world  was  going  all 
right,  though  the  sun  had  not  yet  risen. 


BALDINE.  95 

He  lield  that  himinaiy  liidden  under  the  horizon 
with  great  secrecy,  nobody  knew  where.  In  other 
respects  excessively  communicative,  on  this  question 
he  remained  as  silent  as  a  fish  ;  and  the  expectations 
of  the  public  were  raised  to  a  pitch  that,  for  nervous 
temperaments,  was  quite  intolerable. 

Then,  one  line  morning,  symptoms  of  the  dawning 
of  the  mysterious  sun  began  to  appear  in  the  jour- 
nals ;  little  revelations,  that  steadily  increased  in  in- 
tensity, like  the  glow  before  the  sunrise.  At  first, 
the  shades  of  night  yield  to  the  disturbing  glimmer 
of  twilight;  then  there  appears  in  the  east  a  streak 
of  pale  splendor,  across  which  a  rosy  flush  begins 
to  hover;  forthwith,  a  sudden  fiery  beam  leaps  up; 
then  a  second,  then  a  third ;  then  a  full  sheaf  of 
brilliant  rays,  till  at  last  the  whole  heaven  is  set 
alight,  though  the  sun  still  lingers  under  the  hori- 
zon and  bides  its  time. 

The  first  disturbing  glimmer  of  twilight  was  sent 
forth  by  a  newspaper  which  announced  the  discov- 
ery that  this  long-expected  sun,  in  spite  of  its  Italian 
name,  was  not  an  Italian  sun. 

The  discoverer  was  a  man  of  national  spirit,  and  a 
stanch  protectionist.  lie  coupled  his  announcement 
with  an  elegy  on  the  neglect  and  suppression  of  na- 
tive talent,  and  a  bitter  philippic  against  the  impor- 
tation of  foreign  products.  The  Impresario  had 
perpetrated  an  act  of  treason  to  his  countrj',  and 
Signora  Iduni  was  the  corpus  delicti. 

This  at  once  compelled  the  opposition  journals  to 
preach  a  crusade  against  the  Government.  And  they 
started  it  with  very  spirited  and  eloquent  leaders 


96  BALDINE. 

upon  the  gross  financial  mismanagement,  the  outra- 
geous growth  of  the  public  burdens,  the  depression 
of  trade,  the  impoverishment  of  the  people,  the  in- 
crease of  emigration,  the  bankruptcy  of  the  towns, 
the  starving  condition  of  the  agricultural  laborers, 
the  frightful  P cllagi'a  -  e\)idem[G  in  the  north,  the 
eighty  per  cent,  of  crass  ignorance  in  the  south,  tlic 
3l(zssia,  Camorra,  and  Bingentaggio  —  of  all  which 
things  the  sole  cause  was  Signora  Iduni ! 

Soon  afterwards  came  the  second  discovery. 

The  Diva  was  not  only  not  an  Italian,  she  was 
even  a  German  ;  though  whether  she  was  born  in 
Austria,  or  in  Germany,  had  not  yet  been  ascer- 
tained. 

The  organs  of  the  ''''Italia  irredenta^''  however, 
decided  that  she  must  be  an  Austrian  lady,  who 
had  made  her  escape  from  that  land  of  hideous  tyr- 
anny, where  she  had  been  threatened  with  the  most 
painful  death.  This  view  of  the  matter  was  copi- 
ously illustrated  by  thrilling  romances  about  under- 
ground dungeons  full  of  water  and  rats,  with  hang- 
men, and  sworn  tormentors,  torture -chambers,  and 
the  most  horrible  tortures.  The  romances,  natural- 
l}'',  ended  in  the  wonted  cry  for  tlie  deliverance  of 
the  brethren  who,  in  Trieste,  the  Tyrol,  and  Dalma- 
tia,  were  languishing  under  the  same  tortures. 

Nevertheless,  the  other  journals  asserted  that  the 
Diva  was  from  Germany  proper;  where  the  chil- 
dren, as  soon  as  weaned,  swallow  every  morning  a 
ruler  for  breakfast.  By  that  interesting  piece  of  in- 
formation the  Italian  public  might  adjust  its  expec- 
tations of  the  plastic  grace  and  dramatic  Ijrio  of  this 


BALDINE.  97 

lady's  acting;  and  as  for  the  art  of  singing  as  prac- 
tised in  Germany,  it  was  well  known  that  one  end  of 
the  ruler  always  remained  in  the  German  throat. 

People  who  did  not  write  for  the  press  were  be- 
ginning to  ask,  with  a  titter,  "  Have  you  read?" 
And  before  long  tlie  question  was,  "  By  -  the  •  bj'c, 
have  you  seen  ?"  For  the  comic  papers  had  opened 
a  complete  course  of  illustrated  lectures  on  the  Ger- 
man system  of  swallowing  the  ruler. 

]3ut  all  this  was  only  the  twilight  and  glimmer  of 
dawn. 

The  fiery  glory  came  later.  It  began  with  a  dry 
statement  of  fact  in  one  of  the  morning  papers,  to 
the  effect  that  the  voice  of  Signora  Paolina  Idnni 
was  an  alto. 

A  host  of  astonished  readers  spelled  out  that  para- 
graph slowly,  over  and  over  again,  open-mouthed, 
and  with  eyes  round  as  a  plate,  to  assure  themselves 
that  they  were  really  and  truly  under  no  hallucina- 
tion. But  it  was  no  hallucination,  it  was  not  even  a 
typographical  error;  for  there  it  stood,  plainly  print- 
ed :  "  She  is  certainly  a  contraltist." 

Few  could  swallow  their  chocolate,  that  morning, 
unchoked  by  just  indignation.  Here  was  a  coarse 
outrage  upon  all  the  proprieties,  a  clinched  fist 
shaken  in  the  face  of  the  public,  and  of  each  indi- 
vidual—  a  thing  unheard  of!  And  what  unprece- 
dented insolence,  to  have  announced  on  the  cartel- 
lone.,  in  letters  thrice  as  big  as  usual,  the  appearance 
as  Diva  of  a  person  whose  voice,  it  now  appeared, 
was  only  fit  for  the  parts  of  old  mothers,  elderly 
confidantes,  crones,  witches,  gypsies,  enchantresses, 
7 


98  BALDINE. 

and  fortune-tellers !  Even  the  least  sensitive  souls 
felt  that  the  Impresario  had  practised  a  sorry  joke 
upon  them,  and  were  outspoken  on  the  subject  of 
his  shameless  insolence. 

An  enterprising  tradesman,  who  was  up  to  the 
spirit  of  the  day,  immediately  advertised  for  sale  a 
new  sort  of  whistles  with  an  exceedingly  loud  and 
shrill  note  in  them,  which  were  made  of  tin,  lead, 
pinchbeck,  silver,  silver-gilt,  and  even  gold,  for  every 
rank  and  condition  of  purchasers.  They  were  a 
great  success,  and  he  drove  a  roaring  trade  with 
them;  while  the  very  poorest  portion  of  the  popu- 
lation practised  at  home  upon  all  the  keys  they  could 
find,  with  a  view  to  the  discovery  of  which  gave  the 
shrillest  whistle. 

That  was  the  morning  glow. 

The  sun,  which  was  the  cause  of  it  all,  still  lingered 
under  the  horizon,  and  knew  nothing  about  it ;  but 
the  Impresario  kept  his  eyes  and  ears  open  to  the 
signs  of  the  times,  and  was  well  on  the  qui  vive. 

At  first  he  had  been  frantically  delighted  at  the 
manner  in  which  the  journals  occupied  themselves 
about  his  Diva.  It  was  just  as  if  he  had  paid  them 
for  it,  and  yet  it  had  not  cost  him  a  penny.  Bat 
now  he  perceived  that  all  was  lost.  The  thing  liad 
gone  too  far;  and  he  presented  himself  as  a  broken 
man  before  Signora  Iduni,  with  chattering  teeth, 
for  the  purpose  of  duly  impressing  upon  her  the  ex- 
tremely precarious  nature  of  the  business,  and  the 
ticklish  state  in  which  it  stood. 

Signora  Iduni  smiled. 

The  Impresario  had  drawn  a  smelling-flask  from 


BALDINE.  99 

his  pocket;  for  tlie  situation  was  one  of  which  he 
had  long  experience,  and  he  knew  that  the  announce- 
ment he  had  come  to  make  was  invariably  followed 
by  a  fainting-fit  on  the  part  of  the  lady  concerned. 
Now,  however,  he  stood  staring  at  the  Diva,  with 
ej'es  greatly  surprised,  and  even  a  little  frightened. 
The  disdainful  tranquillity  of  her  smile  disconcerted 
him,  and  at  last  it  put  him  fairly  out  of  temper. 

"Ah,"  he  exclaimed,  "you  are  able  to  smile,  sign- 
ora?  Smile!  Good  heavens!  Do  you  know  that 
Iduni  whistles  are  being  bought  by  the  thousand, 
every  day,  to  welcome  you  ?" 

"  Childish  playthings !''  said  the  cantatrice,  con- 
temptuously. 

"  How  ?  Childish  playthings  ?  You  make  a  jest 
of  it,  do  you  ?" 

"  A  jest !"  she  said.  "  That  would  have  been  the 
first  jest  you  have  ever  heard  from  me.  But  I  have 
noticed  that,  among  a  number  of  children,  if  one 
child  laughs  or  cries,  or  pouts  or  throws  stones,  all 
the  others  often  do  the  same  without  knowing  \v\\y. 
You,  signer,  I  should  think,  must  have  observed  a 
like  tendency  in  the  conduct  of  your  theatrical  pub- 
lic.    Such  things  do  not  in  the  least  affect  me." 

"  Bnt  they  affect  one,  signora — for  your  sake,  of 
course !" 

"What  is  the  drift  of  these  fine  phrases?"  said 
she.  "I  don't  like  them.  I  know,  and  so  do  you, 
that  what  excites  you  is  not  sympathy,  but  self-in- 
terest. You  fancied  that  by  your  manner  of  an- 
nouncing me  to  tlie  public  you  were  doing  a  clever 
thing,  and  had  made  a  lucky  move.     Had  I  known 


100  BALUINE. 

of  it,  I  would  not  liave  allowed  such  a  proceeding; 
but  now  the  thing  is  done,  and  cannot  be  undone. 
The  golden  mountains  you  hoped  to  gain  have  fall- 
en visibly  flat,  and  this  is  what  upsets  you.  Had 
you  not  interrupted  rae,  I  would  have  told  you  be- 
fore what  may  now  be  of  some  comfort  to  you.  As 
for  myself,  you  have  already  had  my  assnrance  that 
things  of  this  sort  never  disturb  me  in  the  smallest 
degree ;  and  as  for  you,  you  liave  only  to  reflect  that 
children  soon  tire  of  one  plaything,  and  take  to  an- 
other." 

"Yes,  I  know  that!"  groaned  the  Impresario. 
"After  the  whistling  comes  the  drumming  with 
flsts  and  feet,  and  then — " 

^^  Etccetera!  Well,  tlien,  let  us  dissolve  our  con- 
tract! I  release  you,  unconditionally,  from  all  your 
obligations." 

"No,  no!  Never!  What  do  you  think  of  me? 
Can  you  suppose  that  my  word — no,  your  word- — no, 
I  mean  my  word — is  to  be  broken  in  this  way  ?  That 
I  would  take  advantage  of  your  generosity  ?  That 
I  am  capable  of  cheating  you  in  so  unheard-of  a  man- 
ner ?     That  would  be  .  .  .  unconscientious !" 

"You  mean  imprudent.  I  like  to  look  at  things 
as  they  are.  Let  us  come  to  the  root  of  the  matter. 
Why  this  continual  draping  and  posturing?  To 
state  matters  plainly,  your  real  meaning  is  that  my 
so-called  generosity  Vvould  certainly  be  very  incon- 
venient to  you  just  now,  when  no  celebrated  singer 
happens  to  be  disengaged ;  and  that  you  want  me 
to  help  you  to  find  a  vein  of  gold  where  your  shaft 
has  hitherto  only  struck  barren  rock.     Well,  then,  I 


BALDINE.  101 

can  give  you  bade  your  word.  I  never  take  back 
mine." 

"  But  what  do  you  propose  to  do  ?  We  are  in  a 
terrible  fix.  You  will  be  hissed  and  whistled  off  the 
stage.  They  are  all  provided  with  whistles.  Even 
the  boxes  will  whistle;  among  the  thousand  Iduni 
whistles  there  are  at  least  ten  of  pure  gold.  Just 
think  of  that,  signora !  The  Iduni  whistles  have 
become  articles  of  fashion.  They  are  all  the  rage. 
People  wear  them  as  hreloques.  The  whole  theatre 
will  be  filled  with  whistles.  They'll  whistle  you 
into  fits  before  you  know  where  you  are.  You'll 
infallibly  falter  and  break  down.  That's  what  al- 
ways happens.  You  stop — choke  down  a  sob — try 
again — no  use — whistling  louder  than  ever — burst 
out  crying — go  into  hysterics — swoon  away — carried 
off  feet  uppermost  —  and  then — general  confusion, 
uproar,  revolution,  universal  smash,  and  the  devil  to 
pay !  I  see  it  all.  I've  seen  it  dozens  of  times  be- 
fore, and  this  time — " 

"  This  time  you  will  not  see  it.  They  will  go  on 
whistling,  and  I  shall  go  on  singing.  For  a  moment, 
perhaps,  the  whistling  may  drown  my  voice — the  or- 
chestra does  that  sometimes.  But  'tis  not  I  that 
will  first  be  out  of  breath." 

"You  don't  know!  They  will  compel  you  to 
stop  singing.  This  is  not  an  ordinary  occasion.  No 
means  have  been  spared  to  make  you  hated  and  ri- 
diculous. Some  threaten,  others  scoff,  all  are  against 
you.  Do  not  reckon  either  on  your  art  or  your  in- 
difference, consummate  as  they  both  are,  to  win  you 
a  fair  hearing  from  such  an  audience." 


103  BALDIXE. 

"  I  do  not,"  said  she. 

"  Upon  what,  then,  can  you  rely  ?" 

"Tlieir  injustice,  and  my  own  scorn  of  it.  I  am 
not  afraid  of  what  I  despise.  Wlien  the  injustice  of 
anything  has  been  publicly  exposed,  the  tiling  itself 
becomes  ridiculous,  and  soon  drops.  Now,  to  con- 
vince these  people  of  the  injustice,  and  make  them 
ashamed  of  the  absurdity,  of  the  proceedings  you  an- 
ticipate with  such  terror,  there  is  one  very  simple 
means." 

"  And  that  is—  " 

"  You  shall  learn  it,  and  it  is  perfectly  easy." 

Hereupon  followed  a  long  conference  between  the 
Iiiipresario  and  the  Diva,  at  the  end  of  which  he 
fervently  kissed  her  hand. 

All  the  way  home  he  ejaculated  to  himself  in  un- 
abated ecstas}', "  Angelic  conception!  heavenly  idea! 
infernally  clever!  d-e-v-ilish  good!" 

The  people  he  passed  in  the  street  looked  after 
liim  with  a  smile,  thinking  how  cheap  wine  must  be 
this  year. 

Several  days  after  this  interview  the  play-bills  for 
the  evening  announced  the  performance  of  the  "  Mu- 
etta  di  Portici."*  At  noon,  however,  these  bills  were 
covered  by  a  fiery  red  placard,  which  informed  the 
public  that  the  first  dancer  was  prevented  by  a  sud- 
den indisposition  from  appearing  in  the  part  of  Fe- 
nella;  but  that  the  Impresario  had  succeeded  in 
procuring  a  competent  substitute. 


*  "  The  Dumb  Girl  of  Portici."    An  opera  better  known  in 
England  as  "Masauicllo." 


BALDINE.  103 

"Substitute?  Competent  substitute!  But  of 
what  kind  ?" 

This  question  occupied  everybody ;  and  through- 
out the  tirst  three  scenes  of  the  opera  the  audience 
remained  in  a  subdued  fret,  exhibited  only  by  a  low 
humming. 

At  the  end  of  tlie  tliird  scene  Elvira  starts  up 
suddenly  from  her  throne  to  ascertain  the  cause  of 
an  approaching  tumult.  Tlie  thousand  heads  of  the 
public  arc  simultaneously  turned,  with  lively  curiosi- 
ty, in  the  same  direction.  The  humming  stops.  All 
eyes  follow  those  of  Elvira  with  an  interest  incom- 
parably keener  than  any  which  the  singer  is  able  to 
simulate;  and  when  she  asks  "What  is  that?"  the 
question  appears  as  if  written  on  a  thousand  aston- 
ished faces. 

What  is  it,  indeed? 

Has  a  daughter  of  Palma  loosed  herself  and  her 
golden  locks  in  all  her  enchanting  beauty  from  some 
old  picture-frame  in  which  her  father's  hand  first  set 
her?  Yet,  no — this  is  scarcely  a  daughter  of  Palma, 
with  that  ever-beaming  smile  of  hers,  in  which  Gior- 
gione,  Titian,  and  the  Yeronese  once  sunned  them- 
selves. The  look  with  which  Fenella,  flying  before 
her  pursuers,  rushed  upon  the  stage,  never  visited 
the  face  of  Palma's  daughter;  had  she  once  looked 
thus  she  could  not  have  so  smiled  again. 

The  girl's  deep-blue  eyes  are  opened  wide,  with 
a  feverish  glare  in  them  ;  her  desperate  look  appeals 
in  heart-felt  anguish  to  the  whole  public,  craving 
help  of  all  and  each,  till  it  rests  suddenly  fixed  on 
Elvira.     In  an  instant  the  out-stretched  hands  are 


104  BALDINE. 

clasped  with  a  convulsive  clutch  upon  Elvira's  gar- 
ment ;  and  as,  clinging  wildly  to  the  feet  of  the 
princess,  the  dumb  girl's  passionate  gestures  depict 
her  love,  her  incarceration,  her  flight,  the  whole  au- 
dience is  hushed  and  breatliless.  It  is  as  if  each 
spectator  were  not  only  looking,  but  listening  intent- 
ly, and  afraid  to  lose  a  syllable.  The  eyes  of  the 
dumb  girl,  every  muscle,  eveiy  nerve  of  her,  pour 
forth  intelligible  words  without  sound,  which  power- 
fully express  all  she  is  feeling,  in  a  silence  more 
poignant  than  the  most  thrilling  song.  The  whole 
body  vibrates  and  speaks  in  every  tone  of  emotion, 
like  some  perfect  instrument  under  the  hand  of  a 
great  virtuoso;  and  when,  at  the  sight  of  Alphonso 
at  the  nuptial  altar,  the  woman's  image  appears — 
miraculously  transported,  as  it  were,  in  the  flash  of  a 
single  infinitesimal  moment,  to  the  threshold  of  the 
chapel — it  is  impossible  to  say  whether  her  feet  have 
carried  her  there,  or  her  arms  been  changed  into 
wings. 

Then  again,  in  the  succeeding  scenes  of  rapidly 
increasing  passion — the  meeting  with  her  brother, 
and  the  tent  scene — her  acting  is  an  incomparable 
presentation  of  love,  anxiety,  jealousy,  hatred,  strug- 
gle, despair — a  marvellous  alternation  of  intense  emo- 
tions— visible  in  every  glance  of  her  eye,  every  feat- 
ure of  her  face,  every  flnger  of  her  hand,  every 
changing  outline  of  her  noble  figure.  Each  fresh 
movement  is  a  distinct  external  revelation  of  the  in- 
nermost life ;  and  the  whole  effect  is  like  a  glorious 
picture-gallery,  through  which  the  spectator  must 
hasten  witli  a  rapid  foot  —  too  rapid,  indeed ;  for 


BALDINE.  105 

there  is  no  time  to  study  eacli  successive  masterpiece 
as  one  would  wish  ;  one  can  only  feel,  at  every  step, 
increasing  astonishment  at  the  wonderful  faculty 
which  has  produced  them  all. 

The  audience  could  no  longer  restrain  its  enthusi- 
asm ;  and  an  applause  such  as  never  before  had  been 
heard  in  that  house  at  last  burst  forth  from  every 
part  of  it. 

Already,  after  the  first  act,  the  spectators  had  sent 
out  in  all  directions  for  flowers  and  garlands.  No- 
body had  been  prepared  for  this,  nobody  had  brought 
a  single  flower,  but  now  the  stage  was  changed  to 
a  flower-garden,  through  which  Fenella  needs  must 
pass  in  response  to  the  innumerable  and  vociferous 
calls  for  her  which  greeted  the  close  of  the  perform- 
ance. 

She  came  forward  quietl}',  as  if  taking  a  walk, 
turned  her  eyes  with  indifference  towards  the  thou- 
sands of  crowded  heads  below,  just  as  if  they  were 
so  many  stones  in  a  payement,  and  then  bowed  slight- 
ly, as  a  lady  might  do  out  of  her  carriage  to  a  distant 
acquaintance  in  the  street. 

Such  conduct  was  as  entirely  new  to  the  audience 
as  the  performance  which  had  preceded  it,  and  it 
increased  their  admiration.  They  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  see  the  strangest  affectation  in  the  acknowl- 
edgment of  their  applause ;  the  archest  coquetry 
simulating  the  most  mincing  modesty;  the  folding 
of  the  hands,  the  pressing  of  the  heart,  the  imploring 
looks  and  deprecating  gestures;  and  finally,  the  usu- 
al die-away  retreat,  in  humble  gratitude  for  so  much 
unmerited  favor.     But  on  the  present  occasion  all 


106  BALDINE. 

sucli  customary  demonstrations  of  liumility  were  con* 
spicuonsly  absent;  and  witli  the  totally  new  and 
strange  behavior  of  this  equally  strange  and  new 
apparition  every  one  was  enchanted. 

As  soon  as  the  performance  was  over,  all  the  jeun- 
esse  doree  crowded  about  the  stage  door,  resolved  to 
carry  their  applause  into  the  streets,  and  to  take  Fe- 
nella's  horses  out  of  her  carriage  and  draw  her  home 
in  triumph. 

The  ripest  of  these  gilded  youths,  who  indeed  were 
over-ripe,  took  the  entrance  of  the  stage  by  storm, 
and  lined  it  like  a  hedge.  At  last  the  greenroom 
door  was  opened ;  but  the  lady  who  came  out  was 
not  Fenella,  It  was  a  little  elderly  woman,  with  a 
good-humored  smile  on  her  face. 

Encouraged  by  that  smile,  they  besieged  and  be- 
Bonght  her  not  to  deprive  them  of  the  pleasure  of  a 
supplementary  ovation.  She  had  not  the  least  ob- 
jection, and  threw  the  door  wide  open.  The  room 
within  was  empty.  Fenella  had  long  ago  escaped 
by  a  side  door.  Only  the  countless  garlands  and 
flowers  lay  about  in  gay  heaps  upon  the  floor. 

"  Fenella,  then,  has  not  taken  home  with  her  these 
tokens  of  her  triumph?"  they  all  exclaimed. 

"No,"  said  the  little  lady,  putting  on  her  bon- 
net. 

"True,"  said  they, "it  would  have  been  impossi- 
ble. Here  are  flowers  enough  to  fill  a  wagon — but 
she  will  send  for  them  afterwards?" 

"  No,"  said  the  little  lady,  buttoning  her  gloves. 

"  Then  what  will  she  do  with  them  ?" 

"Some  one  will  put  them  away.    My  niece  does 


BALDINE.  107 

not  like  flowers,"  said  tlie  lad  v,  with  her  kindly  smile, 
as  she  bowed  and  went  off. 

The  gilded  youths  were  left  alone  with  the  flow- 
ers, at  which  they  stared  dismally  through  their  eye- 
glasses. 

"She  does  not  like  flowers?  Cosa  stupenda! 
Not  like  flowers?  But  that  is  not  to  like  what 
every  artist  dotes  upon — applause,  fame,  honor,  tri- 
umph !  Well,  they  would  go  their  ways,  and  discuss 
at  the  Club  what  other  outward  and  visible  expres- 
sion of  their  homage  it  were  best  to  select  for  a  lady 
who  does  not  like  flowers.  Strange,  but  truly  inter- 
esting phenomenon  !  And,  in  any  case,  decidedly 
chic.''^ 

Then  they  remembered  that  they  had  ascertained 
neither  her  name  nor  her  lodging.  The  Impresario 
had  excused  himself,  pleading  indisposition,  and  to 
the  whole  staff  of  the  opera  company  Fenella  was 
quite  unknown.  So,  at  least,  they  had  all  declared, 
in  reply  to  the  countless  questions  about  her  with 
which  they  were  plied.  Some  of  them,  to  be  sure, 
liad  smiled  signiticantly,  with  an  air  of  superior 
knowledge ;  but  none  of  them  had  vouchsafed  a  par- 
ticle of  information. 

The  next  morning  the  newspapers  treated  their 
readers  to  a  fresh  surprise. 

They  announced  that  the  artist  who,  on  the  pre- 
vious night,  had  unexpectedly  appeared  in  the  part 
of  tbe  dumb  girl  of  Portici  Avas  herself  a  born  mute. 

This  information  furnished  the  public  with  a  per- 
fectly simple  explanation  of  the  startling  naturalness 
of  the  performance;  which, thus  explained, ceased  to 


108  BALUINE. 

be  wonderful.  Any  person  to  whom  mimetic  action 
was  not  merely  the  special  accompaniment,  but  the 
single  habitual  and  only  possible  vehicle  of  expres- 
sion, would  of  course  employ  gesture  as  naturally  and 
easily  as  words  are  employed  by  those  who  possess 
articulate  speech.  The  muscular  and  facial  flexibili- 
ty of  the  performance  was  clearly  the  product  not 
of  art  but  of  custom  ;  just  as,  by  mere  force  of  habit, 
the  person  who  can  speak  knows  how  to  choose  his 
words  instinctively,  without  the  troublesome  prelim- 
inary of  a  conscious  intellectual  effort  every  time 
that  he  uses  the  organs  of  speech.  Those,  therefore, 
who  had  yesterday  fancied  they  were  contemplating 
an  achievement  of  ideal  art,  might  now  lower  their 
too  exalted  conceptions  to  the  level  of  a  pleasing 
reality. 

It  was  not  till  several  days  afterwards  that  the 
long-looked-for  sun,  which  had  lately  been  quite  for- 
gotten in  the  nnexpected  triumph  of,  Fenella,  rose 
at  last  above  the  horizon. 

"  A'ida"  was  the  opera  announced  on  colossal  plac- 
ards, and  at  the  head  of  them,  in  no  less  colossal 
letters, 

Amnekis    .    .   Signora   PAOLINA   IDTJNI. 

Forthwith  Fenella  was  forgotten  in  the  renewed 
excitement  about  the  German  contraltist  said  to  have 
been  reared  upon  rulers. 

This  singer  was  not,  it  seemed,  to  make  her  first 
appearance  in  the  character  of  an  old  woman  or  a 
witch.  So  much  the  worse  for  her!  As  the  young 
daughter  of  Pharaoh,  such  a  creaking  angular  incar- 


BALDINE.  109 

nation  of  Teutonic  rulers  would  be  all  the  more  ri- 
diculous. The  boxes  and  pit  had  brought  their 
whistles  with  them  in  their  waistcoats,  the  gallery 
had  their  keys  in  their  breeches-pockets,  and  all  were 
ready  for  the  signal  of  revolt. 

Excitement  was  at  its  highest  pitch.  Every  place 
had  been  sold  for  live  times  its  ordinary  price ;  and 
half  an  hour  before  the  doors  opened,  not  a  seat  was 
to  be  had  for  love  or  money.  The  whole  world  and 
his  wife  had  resolved  to  be  present  at  the  "  execu- 
tion." For  in  the  breast  of  tlie  public  this  occasion 
revived  a  passion  whicli  had  slumbered  for  a  century 
and  a  half — the  savage  blood -thirst  that,  in  ages 
gone,  rushed  up  in  the  hearts,  and  surged  through 
the  veins  of  the  old  Italians  when  a  Christian  maiden 
was  exposed  to  the  wild  beasts  in  the  Amphitheatre. 

The  ancient  classic  drama  of  martyrdom  was  now 
to  be  re-enacted  as  of  old ;  and  again,  as  of  old,  the 
lion,  panting  for  blood,  stretched  his  huge  limbs  at 
ease  in  the  arena. 

The  first  scene  of  the  opera  passes  uninterrupted, 
unnoticed.  The  house  is  ominously  still.  Tlie  lion 
awaits  his  victim  ;  motionless,  but  on  the  watch,  and 
ready  for  a  spring. 

At  length  Amneris  appears  upon  the  threshold  of 
the  scene. 

The  lion  stares  at  his  victim — stares  and  glares, 
yet  makes  no  motion.  His  eyes  are  sparkling,  his 
limbs  strained  for  the  leap,  but  he  does  not  move. 
He  is  petrified. 

The  Amneris  of  to-night  is  the  same  as  the  Fe- 
nclla  of  last  week. 


110  BALDINE. 

Those  deep-bine  eyes  of  hers  liave  ah-eady  spoken 
to  Kadumes.  Iler  inward  agitation  at  his  aspect  is 
already  revealed  in  the  delicate  tremor  of  the  whole 
frame,  and  every  eloquent  ripple  of  the  glorious 
hair,  before  she  has  yet  opened  her  lips.  But  now, 
from  those  opening  lips  pours  forth  the  first  pure 
note  of  a  voice  that  goes  ringing,  full  and  rich, 
through  the  wide  theatre  to  its  remotest  corners. 
Like  a  stream  of  electric  lire,  the  strong  sweetness 
of  that  sound  passes,  with  an  instantaneous  thrill, 
through  all  the  thousand  hearts  of  the  astonished 
multitude. 

There  is  a  charming  poem  by  Hartmann  von  der 
Aue,  taken  from  tiie  Arthurian  legends,  of  Sir  Iwein 
and  the  lion.  Iwein  delivers  a  lion  from  the  jaws 
of  a  dragon,  and  from  that  time  forward  the  grate- 
ful beast  becomes  the  knight's  devoted  companion, 
following  him  with  touching  fidelity. 

In  the  present  ease  the  old  Arthurian  legend  is 
pleasantly  revived. 

The  dragon  has  for  weeks  been  vomiting  fire  and 
venom ;  and  the  lion,  inebriated,  stupefied,  and  ob- 
fuscated by  those  poisonous  fumes,  is  unable  to  ex- 
tricate himself  from  the  foul  jaws  of  that  ravenous 
monster.  All  at  once,  however,  an  heroic  woman  ap- 
pears, and  delivers  him  from  this  position,  with  as 
much  composure  as  an  ordinary  woman  would 
smooth  her  hair  or  tie  up  her  tresses.  The  liberated 
lion,  who,  in  his  blind  distemper,  had  been  crouching, 
ready  to  spring  on  the  approaching  heroine,  there- 
upon suddenly  recognizes  in  her  his  intrepid  deliv- 
erer, the  dauntless  slayer  of  the  dragon ;  and  as  of 


BALDINii.  Ill 

yoro  for  Iwein,  the  noble  kniglit,  so  now  for  this 
noble  woman,  the  grateful  beast  becomes  all  eyes 
and  ears,  following  with  tonching  fidelity  every  mo- 
tion of  her  hand,  every  sound  of  her  voice. 

'Nov  was  it  gratitude  alone  that  touched  and 
subdued  the  lion's  heart.  He  was  transported  to 
rapture  by  the  irresistible  magic  of  that  woman's 
voice. 

The  few  words — ^^Come,  0  beloved,  enchant  my 
souir' — communicated  to  the  whole  audience  the  en- 
chantment they  invoked ;  and  eyes  and  ears  alike 
were  spellbound  by  the  pathetic  scene,  in  which, 
while  the  priests  below  condemn,  Amneris  above  for- 
gives, and  passes  mute  through  all  the  tortures  of  a 
broken  heart. 

This  time  there  were  no  storms  of  applause,  but 
only  paroxysms  of  convulsed  emotion  ;  trances, 
spasms,  surges  of  sobbing  sound  that  rolled  round 
the  theatre  with  a  suppressed  but  unappeasable  pas- 
sion, till  the  calm  blue  eyes  looked  down  with  tran- 
quil indifference,  and  their  glance  was  followed  by 
a  slight  inclination  of  the  stately  head. 

There  are  eyes  of  which  it  is  said  that  they  can 
subdue  madness  better  than  a  strait -waistcoat,  and 
these  are  of  that  kind.  But  scarcely  is  their  look 
withdrawn  than  the  delirium  begins  anew.  Is  it 
that  the  spell  of  their  power  is  so  soon  broken,  or 
that  the  instinctive  longing  for  the  sweet  subjuga- 
tion of  their  glances  is  so  strong? 

And  so  it  goes  on  again  and  again — a  continual 
wonder!  No  one  is  willing  to  leave  the  theatre — 
though  Signora  Iduni  herself  has  already  left  it,  as 


113  BALDINE. 

the  Impresario  finally  announces,  stepping  forward 
instead  of  lier. 

The  dragon,  who  for  weeks  had  been  disporting 
himself  in  every  conceivable  color,  was  dead. 

The  journals  had  now  not  another  word  to  say 
about  rulers  or  witches.  The  serious  connoisseur, 
the  experienced  judge  of  music,  the  well-bred  au- 
thor, stepped  at  once  into  the  gap  previously  oc- 
cupied by  the  dragon.  They  analyzed  the  per- 
formances of  Fenella  and  Amneris ;  but  even  the 
masters  of  both  arts  found  it  difficult  to  decide 
whether  Signora  Idnni  was  greatest  as  an  actress  or 
as  a  singer.  One  thing  only  was  certain,  that  the 
ideal  of  a  dramatic  singer  was  attained  by  this  won- 
derfully harmonious  combination  of  both. 

It  was  characteristic  of  the  disposition  of  the  pub- 
lic that  nobody  any  longer  spoke  of  the  opera  as 
"Aida."  All,  as  if  by  common  agreement,  called  it 
"  Amneris."     Verdi's  work  was  rebaptized. 


CHAPTER  V. 


The  little  lady  with  the  pleasant  smile  had  already 
given  the  Diva's  adorers  to  understand  that  her 
niece  did  not  like  flowers.  They  consequently  pre- 
pared in  her  honor  a  serenade  and  a  torch-light  pro- 
cession. But  the  serenaders  were  told,  when  they 
arrived,  that  Signora  Iduni  had  driven  that  evening 
into  the  country;  although,  from  the  information 
given  them  by  their  scouts,  they  had  every  reason  to 
believe  her  safe  at  home. 


BxiLDINE.  113 

Tlic  costly  gifts — gold  ornaments,  diamonds,  and 
magnificent  antiques — daily  despatched  to  the  sign- 
ora's  lodgings,  were  invariably  returned,  with  the 
unanswered  letters  that  had  accompanied  them. 
Visitors  were  received  by  the  aunt,  with  the  well- 
known  smile,  but  by  her  alone,  and  so  dismissed. 
All  invitations,  without  any  exception,  were  declined. 

The  aunt's  face  was  never  without  that  good-hu- 
mored smile,  except  when  the  bolder  spirits  expa- 
tiated on  the  princely  fortunes  with  which  they  were 
willing  to  purchase  a  smile  less  constant  from  her 
niece.  Those  gentlemen  the  little  lady  promptly 
sent  home  with  a  flea  in  their  ear.  To  some  who 
seriously  added  to  the  offer  of  the  princely  fortune 
that  of  an  illustrious  name,  she  smilingly  returned 
her  customary  answer  —  "My  niece  doesn't  care 
about  it." 

It  was  heart-rending !  \Yhat  in  the  world  did  she 
care  about  ? 

^'Niente^^^  replied  the  little  lady,  with  a  cheerful 
smile,  as  if  she  were  telling  them  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world;  and,  so  saying,  she  dropped  a 
short  courtesy  and  disappeared. 

But  what  really  went  beyond  all  bounds  was  that 
the  aunt  appeared  to  be  as  incorruptible  as  the  niece 
was  indifferent.  Ko  sort  of  bribe  could  obtain  from 
lier  admission  to  Signora  Iduni,  nor  even  a  promise 
to  mention  the  suitor's  name  to  the  signora. 

The  aunt  and  niece  were  of  the  same  impenetra- 
ble stuff,  and  '' Me7ite P' —W ^q  that  all  that  either 
of  them  liked  ? 

Impossible! 


114  BALDINE. 

TI1U8  arose  the  second  all-important  qnestion — 
"What  was  the  aunt's  weak  point?" 

And  this  question  proved  exceedingly  difficult  to 
answer.  It  was  no  use  to  assail  her  with  nicknames 
behind  her  back,  and  call  her  Cerberus  or  Argus,  or 
the  Colchean  or  Ilesperian  Dragon  ;  the  truth  re- 
mained unshaken,  that  this  aunt  was  an  outwork 
which  must  be  taken  before  the  besiegers  could 
hope  to  get  a  sight  of  even  the  finger-tips  of  the 
niece. 

The  Impresario  also,  to  the  question,  "  What  does 
Signora  Iduni  like?"  returned  the  stereotyped  an- 
swer, '''■  NienteP''  and  to  all  appeals  for  his  inter- 
vention, he  replied,  with  a  shrug,  that  it  would  be 
utterly  fruitless.  The  signora,  he  said,  had  her  pe- 
culiarities, which  the  gods  themselves  could  neither 
bend  nor  turn  by  so  much  as  a  hair's-breadth ;  and 
as  for  the  aunt,  slie  was  a  virgin  fortress. 

Nevertheless,  this  apparently  impregnable  breast- 
work was  at  last  insidiously  carried  by  a  surprise. 

One  day  a  card  was  presented  to  the  inexorable 
aunt,  and  the  name  upon  the  card  was — 

Conte  Gaetano  Armoneta. 

The  good  lady  sighed  compassionately  as  she  glanced 
at  it. 

"  One  more  to  the  many !"  she  muttered.  "  Well, 
let  him  enter  1" 

The  count  was  a  handsome,  distinguished-looking 
man;  but  so,  alas,  had  been  not  a  few  of  his  pred- 
ecessors in  this  Forlorn  Hope.  He  looked  a  little 
more  serious  than  the  others,  and  that  made  her  sor- 


BALDINE.  115 

ry  for  Iiim ;  for  she  saw  at  the  first  glance  that  lie 
would  be  harder  to  get  rid  of,  and  might  take  his 
dismissal  more  to  heart.  There  was  a  certain  ear- 
nestness in  his  features  which  rather  distressed  her 
on  his  account,  and  a  melancholy  expression  in  his 
eyes  which  a  little  softened  her  motherly  heart  to 
him. 

But  she  soon  discovered,  to  her  great  relief,  that 
he  was  not  of  the  tribe  with  which  she  had  so  long 
been  dealing.  He  did  not  inquire  after  her  niece, 
nor  even  allude  to  that  lady  by  so  much  as  a  single 
word. 

"Allow  me,  signora,"  said  he,  "to  ask  you  if  you 
can  give  me  any  information  concerning  a  young 
man  named  Antonio  Bardi?" 

"  Toniello,"  cried  the  little  lady,  springing  up  in 
spite  of  her  corpulence. 

"  Yes,  Toniello,"  replied  the  count.  "  He  was  my 
foster-brother,  but  I  loved  him  like  a  real  brother; 
and  like  a  real  mother  was  his  mother  to  me.  She 
it  was  who  brought  me  up  when  my  own  poor  moth- 
er died.  In  my  j'oung  daj's  I  was  a  great  traveller, 
and  during  one  of  my  absences  from  Italy  my  fa- 
ther died  also.  He  bequeathed  to  Toniello,  by  his 
will,  a  little  farm,  with  the  intin-sation  that  this  was 
not  to  stand  in  the  way  of  Gaetano's  intentions  on 
liis  behalf.  For  my  father  knew  how  much  I  had 
at  heart  Toniello's  welfare;  and  he  approved  of  my 
intention  to  intrust  him  with  the  management  of  all 
my  estates  as  soon  as  he  had  learned  to  manage  his 
own  little  farm.  On  my  return,  I  was  informed  that 
Toniello  had  let  out  his  inheritance  and  sronc  with 


116  BALDINE. 

a  party  of  workmen  nortliward,  to  see  the  world. 
Later,  tlie  news  reached  Lombardy  that  Toniello 
had  perished  abroad,  and  liis  little  property  was  pur- 
chased by  the  tenant  to  whom  he  had  let  it.  After 
many  fruitless  inquiries,  I  was  directed  to  you,  Sign- 
ora  Yico ;  and  I  have  come  directly  from  the  station 
to  your  house." 

Signora  Vico  was  seized  with  a  fit  of  her  old  volu- 
bility. She  indulged  in  a  detailed  account  of  Toni- 
ello's  life  and  death,  mingled  with  ejaculations,  siglis, 
and  sobs. 

The  count  drooped  his  handsome  head,  and  was 
silent  for  some  time.  At  last  he  said,  looking  up 
with  moist  eyes, 

"And  his  poor  bride  ?     Does  she  still  live  ?" 

"  She  does,"  said  the  signora. 

"Where?  AVhat  can  I  do  for  her?"  cried  the 
count,  with  eagerness. 

'■^NienteP^  said  Signora  Vico,  sadly.  "Come  this 
evening  to  the  Opera.  There  we  can  speak  of  this 
again.  But,  for  Heaven's  sake,  no  more  just  now ! 
I  am  beside  myself  with  all  these  cruel  reminiscences. 
Eight  years  have  passed  since  then,  and  to  me  it  ap- 
pears as  if  it  had  all  happened  yesterday.  Go  now, 
Signer  Conte !  You  cannot  stay  here  any  longer.  I 
am  every  moment  expecting  my —  No  matter!  some- 
body who  never  receives  visitors. 

''^Addio,  Contino  /"  she  added,  as  the  count  with- 
drew. 

Contino  !  He  was  already  adopted  by  her  mother- 
ly heart,  as  years  ago  it  had  adopted  Toniello.  Those 
moist  eyes  had  bewitched  her. 


BALDINE.  117 

Once  again  "Aida,"  or  as  it  was  now  called,  "Amne- 
ris,"  was  performed. 

Sijinora  Vico  sat  in  her  box  near  the  stance.  The 
count  had  seen  and  saluted  her  as  he  entered  tho 
theatre,  but  he  never  came  to  her  box.  He  must 
have  forgotten  all  about  her ;  he  did  not  even  once 
look  towards  her  during  the  performance.  Indeed, 
he  did  not  look  either  wa}',  to  right  or  left,  but  kept 
his  eyes  immovably  fixed  upon  the  stage  ;  and,  dur- 
ino;  the  entr\ictes,  he  looked  at  the  curtain  as  if  his 
gaze  were  trying  to  pierce  through  it.  Signora  Vico 
supposed,  at  first,  that  this  abstraction  was  entirely 
due  to  his  admiration  for  Amneris;.  but  she  dismiss- 
ed that  idea  when  she  noticed  that  he  did  not  move 
a  finger  to  join  in  the  repeated  rounds  of  applause. 

The  opera  appointed  for  the  next  evening,  in  com- 
pliance with  the  vociferous  demand  of  the  public, 
was  "  Fenella ;"  for  so  also  was  the"Muetta  di  Por- 
tici"  now  generally  called. 

Tiie  count  sat  in  his  previous  place,  and  conducted 
himself  just  as  before. 

And  so  on  for  several  evenings. 

At  last,  one  forenoon,  he  paid  a  second  visit  to 
Signora  Vico's  house.  He  was  pale,  the  earnestness, 
of  his  features  appeared  more  pronounced  than  on 
the  occasion  of  his  first  visit,  and  his  whole  face  was 
pervaded  hy  an  expression  of  profound  melancholy. 

"  I  come,"  he  said,  "  to  take  leave  of  you,  signora. 
I  am  going  in  search  of  Toniello's  bride.  She  is  to 
me  a  holy  legacy." 

"  Don't,  Signor  Contino !"  cried  the  signora.  "You 
can  do  nothing  at  all  for  Baldine.   Pecuniarily,  she  is 


118  BALDINE. 

very  well  oil ;  she  possesses  more  tlian  she  ever  pos- 
sessed before,  much  more  than  she  requires  for  her 
support.  And  mentally —  Dear  Mother  of  God, 
what's  gone  is  gone !  You  cannot  bring  her  back. 
You  cannot  restore  to  her  what  was  once  hers — the 
love  of  man  and  beast,  and  bird  and  blossom,  the 
kindly  human  trust  in  human  kindness!  They  are 
gone.  And  ah.  Signer  Conte,  worst  of  all,  gone  with 
them  is  the  comfortable  Christian  faith — the  faith  in 
tlie  Madonna,  the  faith  in  God  and  His  holy  saints ! 
What  is  left  to  look  for  ?     Nieiite  !  niente  /" 

And  Signora  Yico  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"Nevertheless,"  said  the  count, "I  will  bring  Bal- 
dine  here." 

" Here !     And  why  ?     For  what  purpose?" 

"  For  what  purpose  ?  That  she  may  once  see  Sign- 
ora Iduni  as  Fenella.  Fenella  suffers  deeper  pain 
than  that  poor  girl.  She  also  loses  her  lover — loses 
him,  moreover,  by  base  treason,  yet  she  finds  a  ref- 
uge in  her  love  for  her  brother.  Baldine,  too,  has  a 
brother — myself — and  I  will  accomplish  my  task.  I 
will  find  her,  even  if  I  lose  myself  in  the  attempt." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Contino?  How  can  you  lose 
yourself  in  the  attempt  ?" 

"Did  you  never  hear,  signora,  that  what  is  an  an- 
tidote for  one  may  be  a  poison  for  another  ?  Addio, 
signora !  I  must  be  gone,  for  1  leave  in  an  hour." 

"Blessed  Madonna!  how  hot  your  blood  is, Signer 
Contino  !  Who  would  have  guessed  it  ?  You  look 
so  cool !  But  Baldine  is  no  longer  in  the  forest  quar- 
ter of  Oberau." 

"  Where  is  she,  then  ?" 


BALDINE.  119 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Then  I  shall  seek  her  out,  wherever  she  be.  Till 
now  I  have  wandered  purposeless  about  the  world. 
Henceforth,  at  least,  my  wanderings  will  have  an 
aim.     Addio,  signora!" 

Signora  Yico  grasped  his  arm. 

"You  must  not  go  away,  Signor  Contino,  to  wan- 
der about  the  world  again  at  random.  AVait  only 
a  few  days,  till  I  myself  have  made  inquiries  about 
lier.  Promise  me  this !  What, you  will  not?  Then, 
at  least,  one  day  !  No,  I  do  not  let  go  of  you  thus ! 
Presently  my  —  niece  —  will  be  coming  home  from 
the  rehearsal.  I  will  speak  with  her  —  that  is,  I 
shall —  She  would  be  anxious  if  I  went  out  with- 
out telling  her." 

"Your  niece?  Ah  3'es,  Signora  Iduni!"  said  the 
count,  looking  down. 

And  then,  as  if  following  out  a  long  train  of 
thought,  he  murmured  to  himself, 

"  They  say  nobody  has  seen  her  off  the  stage ;  they 
tell  strange  things  of  her." 

"As  of  you,  too,  Contino!"  put  in  Signora  Yico. 
"  How  in  the  Indian  jungles  you  have  stalked  wild 
tigers;  how  in  Africa  you  have  hunted  lions,  and  ele- 
phants, and  unicorns ;  how  you  have  been  engaged 
in  conflicts  with  the  slave-traders,  and  have  thrust 
3^ourself  everywhere  into  the  most  dangerous  places, 
where  death  is  ever  at  hand ;  how  you — " 

"  Good  God  !  yes,  signora,  one  runs  away,  and  wan- 
ders through  the  whole  world,  to  be  anywhere  happi- 
er than  at  home.  That  is  an  illusion.  Nowhere  have 
I  felt  so  well  and  glad  as  at  home,  in  my  childhood, 


120  BALDINE. 

while  Toniello's  niotlier,  tlie  kind-hearted  Marnccia, 
sat  on  the  bench  before  tlic  house  shellinji:  chestnuts 
or  stripping  maize,  and  Toniello  and  I  lay  on  the 
lawn  at  her  feet,  listening  to  the  homely  songs  she 
was  never  tired  of  singing — the  songs  of  our  own 
people.     Ah,  those  dear  old  songs !" 

"  Yes,"  sighed  the  signora,  "  dear  old  songs !  To- 
niello inherited  them  from  his  mother.  He  sung  them 
so  beautifully!  And  there  was  ono  in  particular — 
his  favorite  song,  which  I  think  I  shall  never  forget. 
Let  me  see,  how  does  it  go  ?" 

And  she  hummed  softly  the  beginning  of  the 
melody,  but  presently  paused.  Siie  seemed  unabld 
to  continue  it. 

The  count  rose  and  opened  the  piano.  He  touch- 
ed the  keys  dreamily,  and  then  began,  in  a  soft  bary- 
tone, Toniello's  favorite  song — 

"  Oh, were  I  slumbering  deep 
In  death's  eternal  night — " 

"While  he  was  thus  singing,  his  eyes  fell  upon  the 
mirror  on  the  wall  opposite  to  him.  In  the  frame 
of  the  mirror  appeared  the  image  of  the  woman  he 
had  seen  as  Fenella  and  Amneris.  Her  eyes  were 
staring  at  him,  and  her  arms  hung  slack  at  her  side 
as  she  stood,  leaning  slightly  forward  through  an 
opened  door,  beside  which  sat  Signora  Vieo,  watching 
her  with  a  face  of  great  anxiety. 

The  count's  voice  failed  him. 

His  fingers  for  a  while  went  on  moving  the  keys 
automatically,  but  suddenly  they  struck  a  discord 
as  he  sprung  up,  and,  with  a  face  w'hich  had  been 


BALDINE.  121 

rapidly  growing  paler,  bowed  in  silence  to  Signora 
Idiini. 

"  This  is  Toniello's  foster-brother,"  said  Signora 
Vico,  in  a  suppressed  voice. 

The  Diva  looked  a  long  time  silently  and  keenly 
at  the  count,  but  she  said  nothing. 

In  a  tone  still  more  broken,  Signora  Yico  went 
on — 

"Conte  Armoneta  has  called  on  me  to  learn  the 
fate  of  Toniello ;  and  now  he  has  set  his  heart  upon 
going  in  search  of  Baldine,  that  he  may  bring  her  here 
—to—" 

She  stopped  suddenly. 

"To  what?"  said  the  deep, soft  voice  of  Amneris. 

"  To  find  in  him  a  brother,  because  to  him  she  is, 
as  it  were,  a  legacy  from  Toniello.  And  he  wishes 
to  bring  her  here  in  order  that  Fenella  may  show 
her  how  a  brother's  love  can  be  a  refuge  from  de- 
spair." 

Once  more  Signora  Iduni  looked  fixedly  upon  the 
count. 

"A  brother's  love!"  she  said,  slowly.  "But  the 
love  of  a  sister  brings  no  good  to  Masaniello.  He 
dies  by  sword  and  poison.  For  Fenella,  too,  perhaps 
the  happiest  end  is  to  warm  herself  at  last  from  the 
world's  chill  in  the  fire  of  Vesuvius.  A  brother! 
and  wherefore  a  brother?  But  why  all  these  mysti- 
fications, which  seem  to  be  to  the  taste  of  my  Im- 
presario  f  You  need  look  no  farther,  count.  It  is 
I  who  was  Toniello's  bride.  I  am  that  Baldine  you 
wished  to  find  and  fetch.  Be  assured,  however,  that 
Baldine  died  long  ago,  and  that  you  have  only  found 


laa  BALDINE. 

a  person  who  can  tell  yon,  perhaps,  more  of  Toniello 
than  any  one  else. 

^^  Mamma  inia^''  she  added,  turning  to  Signora 
Yieo,  "  Toniello's  foster-brother  may  conic  again,  if 
he  wishes  to  hear  of  Toniello.  He  is  an  exception 
— he  does  not  come  for  my  sake;  it  is  just  to  him 
that  I,  too,  should  make  an  exception." 

Thenceforward  the  count  occasionally  availed  him- 
self of  this  exceptional  permission. 

Signora  Iduni  told  him  all  she  knew  of  Toniello. 
She  was  always  perfectly  tranquil,  indifferent,  and 
cold ;  and  she  spoke  without  betraying  any  feeling 
in  her  features  or  her  voice,  as  if  she  were  reciting 
some  old  legend  of  by-gone  ages.  There  was  not  a 
lyric  note  in  the  whole  narrative :  not  a  single  col- 
ored thread  did  she  suffer  to  entwine  itself  with  the 
monotonous  gray  woof  of  her  recital.  It  sounded 
like  an  ancient  epic,  whose  rhapsodist  entirely  sup- 
presses his  own  personality — exhibiting  no  emotion, 
and  interposing  no  comment,  in  the  course  of  what 
is  given  him  to  tell,  but  standing  aside  from  his 
theme,  as  it  were,  a  passive  listener  to  all  that  he  re- 
lates. 

There  was  no  lack,  liowever,  of  glowing  lyric  and 
blooming  idyl  in  the  tales  narrated  by  the  count. 
His  talk  always  reverted  to  the  childhood  of  Toniel- 
lo and  his  own,  and  the  nnforgotten  foster-mother, 
the  good  Maruccia.  In  the  intervals  of  conversation 
on  these  topics  he  would  sit  down  to  the  piano  and 
sing  some  song  of  Maruccia's,  while  Signora  Iduni 
stood  behind  him,  and  he  could  see  her  staring  eyes 
and  drooping  figure  in  the  mirror.     Sometimes  also 


BALDINE.  133 

he  told  her  stories  of  liis  later  life,  of  its  restless 
wanderings  in  distant  countries,  and  of  outlandish 
folk,  and  their  strange  ways  and  doings. 

Then,  as  Signora  Iduni  sat  in  the  sofa  corner,  lis- 
tening with  bent  head,  an  old,  sweet,  by-gone  dream 
returned  to  her.  A  loudly  creaking  cart  came  la- 
boring up  a  mountain  -  path ;  behind  it  appeared  a 
head  with  a  snowy-white  beard — an  old  man's  head 
— and  then,  by  degrees,  as  from  depths  of  mist,  the 
whole  figure  of  the  old  man.  I^earer  and  nearer  he 
staggers  on  his  way  to  her,  and  begins  to  relate  to 
the  listening  child  stories  of  strange  lands  beyond 
the  mountain-brow,  and  of  distant  folk,  and  all  their 
doings.  And  clearly  and  distinctly  at  last  the  words 
come  to  her,  in  the  accents  of  a  well-known,  long- 
lost  voice — 

"All  is  for  tlie  test,  and  everything  has  its  Why. 
Only  one  must  find  it  out .'" 

She  passed  her  hand  across  her  eyas,  to  sweep 
away  the  dream-picture. 

"Find  it  out?"  she  mused  —  "find  out  what? 
What  is  there  to  find  where  nothing  is  ?  Most  prob- 
ably the  old  man  meant  that  into  all  things  one 
must  put  something.  A  something  that  may  per- 
haps benefit  for  a  while,  or  comfort  those  who  have 
not  the  courage  to  look  open-eyed  into  the  terrible 
emptiness  around  them.  Yet  this,  too,  is  nothing 
worth !  What  comes  of  it  all,  at  the  utmost  ?  Il- 
lusions, fictions!  and  beyond  them  —  a  bottomless 
abyss!    Niente!  NienteP'' 

One  day  the  count  entered  in  a  state  of  painful 
agitation,  ill-suppressed,  and  wholly  unlike  his  habit- 


124  BALDINE. 

ually  quiet  melancholy.  He  stepped  Imn-iedly  for- 
ward, as  if  he  had  something  of  pressing  importance 
to  communicate  to  Signora  Iduni,  bnt  suddenly 
checked  himself,  paused  in  evident  confusion,  went 
to  the  table,  turned  over  the  leaves  of  an  album, 
then  opened  the  piano,  struck  a  few  chords,  closed 
the  instrument  again,  and  finally  sat  down  silent  in 
tlie  recess  of  the  window. 

The  actress  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

He  felt  her  keen  gaze  resting  on  him,  rose  abrupt- 
ly, walked  to  ihcfauteuil  in  which  she  was  sitting, 
and  said,  with  a  trembling  voice, 

"  I  have  in  the  course  of  my  life  wasted  a  good 
deal  of  foolhardy  courage  upon  nothing;  and  now, 
when  I  most  want  it,  my  courage  forsakes  me.  I 
have  learned  to  know  what  fear  is,  and  I  feel  it  at 
this  moment.     Will  you  not  help  me,  signora?" 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  V  she  said.  "  Tell 
me." 

"It  was  once  Toniello's  wish  to  make  you  happy," 
he  replied.  "His  wishes  are  holy  legacies  to  me. 
I  cannot  fulfil  them  all.  I  am  not  Toniello.  I  can- 
not make  yon  happy,  but  I  wish,  at  least,  to  see  you 
less  sad ;  and  I  believe  that  I  can  make  you  more 
cheerful.  Fate  and  men  have  wronged  3'ou.  For 
that  wrong  I  would  make  amends ;  and  I  feel  in 
myself  the  power  to  achieve  what  I  desire  more  than 
all  things  in  the  world,  loving  you  as  I  do  unspeak- 
ably.    Be  my  wife,  Paolina !" 

"  And  you,  too !"  she  said,  sorrowfully ;  "yon,  too, 
then,  are  like  all  the  others!  But  they,  at  least,  did 
not  know  mo.      To  them  my  manner  must  have 


BALDINE.  135 

seemed  a  strange  caprice,  which  iiiiglit,  perliaps, 
cliange  any  moment,  like  the  weather.  You,  how- 
ever? Yon,  who,  for  Toniello's  sake,  have  been 
admitted  to  stand  inside  my  life ;  you,  by  whom  I 
thought  it  possible  to  be  understood  !" 

"It  is  because  I  understand  you,"  he  answered, 
quickly,  "  that  I  have  faith  in  my  own  power  to 
make  your  life  less  sad.  Only  in  the  strength  of 
this  faith  could  I  have  told  you  all  I  feel.  Be  my 
wife!  I  love  you  fervently,  but  I  would  have 
crushed  into  everlasting  silence  the  cry  of  my  heart 
if  I  did  not  feel  that  it  was  the  voice  of  a  prophetic 
faith." 

"And  yet,"  she  replied,  "  it  is  onlj^  the  voice  of  a 
twofold  superstition.  Both  your  faith  in  what  you 
deem  your  love  for  me,  and  your  confidence  in  its 
power  to  effect  the  smallest  change  in  either  my  life 
or  my  character,  are  pure  illusions !" 

"  I  swear  by  God — " 

"God?"  she  interrupted,  almost  fiercely;  and  then, 
eying  him  coldly,  she  added,  in  a  hard  tone, 

"You  have  been  very  piously  brought  up,  count?" 

Both  compassion  and  scorn  seemed  mingled  in  the 
tone  of  this  question.  He  did  not  reply  to  it;  but 
she,  who  had  learned  to  interpret  mute  expressions 
better  even  than  uttered  words,  could  read  in  his 
looks  and  features  the  pain  it  had  caused  him. 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  and  said, 

"I  am  sorry.  Forgive  me  if  I  hurt  you.  I  know 
you  mean  it  well,  but  you  are  deceiving  yourself 
about  me,  and  about  yourself  too." 

"  About  myself,  no !"  he  answered,  earnestl3'.     "  I 


126  BALDINE. 

once  knew  a  girl  who  is  no  more.  We  were  little 
neighbors  in  childhood ;  and  as  children  our  souls 
grew  togetlier  in  a  thousand  ways,  like  young  trees 
whose  branches  interlace  as  they  grow  up,  till  they 
have  but  one  foliage  between  them.  She  became 
my  wife.  A  few  weeks  after  that  she  died  ;  and  it 
was  her  death  that  drove  me  abroad.  My  spirit, 
longing  for  escape  from  a  life  that  was  only  the  con- 
sciousness of  suffering,  dragged  m}'  body  with  it 
through  the  pestilential  air  of  the  Indian  swamps 
and  jungles,  under  the  murderous  climates  of  Af- 
rica, and  into  the  company  of  wild  beasts  and  wild 
men.  But,  wherever  I  went,  my  grief  followed  me 
from  place  to  place,  and  the  death  I  sought  evaded 
my  pursuit.  Thus  I  returned  to  my  own  country 
the  same  as  when  I  left  it,  a  man  with  no  hope  or 
purpose  in  life.  The  rumor  of  Toniello's  unknown 
fate  eventually  led  me  to  this  town.  But  here  I 
have  discovered  that  my  heart  is  not  yet  dead.  A 
single  look  of  yours,  Paolina,has  quickened  it  to  the 
core.  A  spark,  still  smouldering  under  the  ashes, 
leaped  up  when  I  saw  you.  Then  you  sung.  Yours 
is  a  voice  which  does  more  than  charm  the  ear  with 
a  sensuous  delight;  it  penetrates  the  depths  of  the 
heart.  On  mine  its  influence  was  like  the  breath 
of  spring,  thawing  the  laid-up  ice,  moving  the  foun- 
dations of  the  deep,  and  awaking  what  till  then  lay 
still  and  dead.  It  swept  the  withered  leaves  from 
the  loosened  soil,  and  revealed  the  liberated  bud- 
dings of  new  life.  I  felt  my  heart  begin  to  move 
once  more.  It  beat  feebly  and  coldly,  tlien  stronger 
and  warmer,  and  at  last,  little  by  little,  loud  and  glow- 


BALDINE.  127 

ing,  as  now,  with  all  the  love  you  have  taught  it  to 
feel  for  you !" 

"  For  me  f "  she  said.  "  No,  but  for  the  artist  ! 
You  have  yourself  proved,  better  than  I  could  have 
done,  the  truth  of  what  I  tell  yon.  I  did  not  dis- 
courage your  enthusiastn  for  my  art,  because  I  saw 
that  it  was  for  you  a  source  of  happiness.  But  now 
that  I  see  you  deluded  and  ensnared  by  it,  I  must 
speak  out.  It  were  no  kindness  to  prolong  a  dan- 
gerous illusion.  You  talk  to  me  of  my  singing  and 
my  acting.  Neither  the  one  nor  the  other  has  ever 
been  to  me  a  matter  of  feeling.  Both  are  entirely 
the  products  of  acquired  skill." 

"SkilU"  he  exclaimed.  "You  speak  thus  of  a 
performance  so  profoundly  touching,  in  its  truth  to 
Nature's  deepest  feelings  and  highest  forms,  that  ev- 
ery time  I  behold  it  tlie  applause  it  elicits  from  oth- 
ers seems  to  startle  me  out  of  a  deep  dream !  I  feel 
something  like  a  physical  pain  whenever  I  hear  that 
applause ;  and  I  cannot  but  imagine  that  to  you,  also, 
the  shock  must  be  painful  when  the  reality  of  the 
effect  yon  have  produced  thus  shatters  and  scatters, 
like  a  brutal  blow^,  the  inspiration  that  has  enabled  you 
to  produce  it.  To  yourself,  no  doubt,  the  intoxication 
of  such  applause  may  perhaps  partially  soften  what — " 

"You  are  doubly  mistaken,"  she  interrupted.  "Tiie 
applause  cannot  intoxicate  me.  I  am  absolutely  in- 
different to  it.  Nor  does  it  snatch  me  out  of  dream- 
land, for  the  simple  reason  that  I  have  never  quitted 
the  firm  ground  of  reality." 

"  Impossible !  You  ?  No,  Paolina,  I  do  not  be- 
lieve it !" 


128  BALDINE. 

"All,  it  troubles  3'onr  illusions,''  she  said,  sadly. 
"  Once  I,  also,  had  illusions  of  the  same  kind.  Like 
you,  I  supposed  that  on  the  stage,  in  order  to  move 
others  by  tlie  representation  of  the  passions,  one  must, 
one's  self,  really  feel,  or  at  least  be  capable  of  feeling, 
love,  hatred,  anger,  ecstas}^  despair,  and  so  forth.  In 
this  belief  I  invariably  replied  to  all  the  exhortations 
of  my  masters  that  I  knew  myself  to  be  unfit  for  a 
dramatic  singer;  I  could  not  simulate  on  the  stage 
what  I  was  incapable  of  feeling  off  it.  AVhcn  they 
assured  me  that  this  supreme  self -composure  was 
just  the  mint-mark  that  stamped  me  for  a  genuine 
artist  of  the  rarest  quality,  I  entirely  disbelieved 
them.  Then,  to  the  place  where  I  was  living  at 
that  time,  there  came  a  great  tragic  actress,  a  woman, 
such  as  one  sees  only  once  in  a  century,  with  power 
to  stir  the  most  stagnant  spirits  to  their  deepest 
depths.  She  roused  my  own  from  its  long  apath}'. 
Like  you,  I  felt  again  a  movement  in  my  soul.  Once 
I  saw  her  as  Desdemona.  I  shall  never  forget  it.  I 
sat  as  if  I  were  petrified,  and  could  have  knelt  to  her, 
as  I  saw  her  standing  there  before  me  on  the  stage. 
On  either  side  of  me  I  heard  a  growing  trouble  of 
soft  sounds.  I  looked  up ;  the  women  were  sobbing, 
the  men  had  tears  in  their  eyes.  To  me  it  is  not 
given  to  weep,  but  with  dry  eye&  I  stared  again  at 
Desdemona.  Then  I  saw  that  mighty  mistress  of 
the  emotions  of  others,  just  at  the  conclusion  of  a 
scene  the  most  passionate  and  affecting  that  you  can 
possibly  conceive,  lightly  turn  and  nod  and  smile  at 
some  one  in  the  side -scenes.  I  rose  and  left  the 
theatre.     Tiiat  one  look  convinced  me  that  I  was  fit 


BALDINE.  129 

to  be  an  artist.  I  never  again  beheld  the  great  tra- 
gedian. I  threw  her  image  to  the  rest  of  the  rubbish 
I  had  so  often  before  mistaken  for  truth.  Call  all 
that  refuse  'Lost  Illusions!'  This  one  was  my  last. 
But  do  as  I  did,  count !  Throw  the  Cantati'ice  Iduni 
to  the  great  rubbish-heap  of  discarded  iictions  and 
shattered  faiths.  For  you^  at  least,  other  illusions, 
fairer,  and  perhaps  more  lasting,  still  remain.  For 
me  there  is  nothing  left." 

"In  yon,  Paolina,"  cried  the  count,  "the  capacity 
for  deep  feeling  is  only  asleep.  Your  ordinary  life 
does  not  disturb  its  slumber,  and  therefore  your  or- 
dinary self  is  unconscious  of  its  existence.  But  on 
the  stage  it  awakens  with  Titanic,  because  unex- 
hausted, power;  and  then  it  is  the  existence  of  your 
ordinary  self  that  becomes  effaced.  Between  the 
two  extremes  there  is  no  intermediate  stage  of  con- 
sciousness. The  life  that  informs  the  ideal  image  is 
your  own,  and  it  is  the  only  life  that  is  truly  yours. 
Yon  do  not  see  this,  any  more  than  one  sees  one's 
self.  You  are  not  conscious  of  the  process,  for  proc- 
ess there  is  none.  It  is  not  you  that  gives  life  to 
that  image,  it  is  the  image  that  gives  life  to  you." 

"  That  is  so,"  she  replied.  "  But  why  ?  This  im- 
age, as  it  shapes  itself  out,  displaces  nothing  in  my 
inmost  self.  Nothing  there  need  give  way  to  make 
room  for  it,  for  there  all  else  is  empt3\  In  such  a 
desert  every  form  finds  space  enough  for  expansion. 
Once  I  knew  an  old  man  who  let  his  cart  moan  and 
cry  for  him.  So  I,  who  cannot  do  it  for  myself,  let 
these  creations  of  the  great  masters  cry  and  moan 
for  me.  And  if  I  sing,  and  sometimes  laugh,  upon 
9 


130  BALDINE. 

the  stage —  Well,  I  once  possessed,  when  a  child,  a 
ball,  from  which  I  tried  in  vain  to  learn  the  cause  of 
all  the  irrepressible  gayetj  and  wild  delight  with 
which  it  was  always  springing  abont.  The  ball  would 
not  reveal  to  me  its  secret ;  but  at  a  single  stab  of 
that  old  man's  knife  the  thing  shrunk,  and  collapsed 
into  a  wretched  gray  rag.  The  secret  of  its  buoyan- 
cy, and  all  that  deceptive  gayety,  was — air,  nothing 
but  air!  Art  remains.  Yet  even  to  Art  I  owe  but 
little.  By  far  the  greater  portion  of  all  you  admire 
in  me  is  only  the  product  of  an  acquired  skill.  I 
lived  in  my  childhood  with  a  dumb  person,  and  af- 
terwards with  those  who  seldom  spoke ;  so  that,  with- 
out conscious  effort,  I  have  learned  to  understand  the 
language  of  mutes  and  dumb  animals  better  than 
spoken  speech." 

"  And  your  song,  Paolina  ?"  said  the  count.  "  That 
wonderful  interfusion  of  words,  gestures,  and  melo- 
dies !  that  song  which  sets  vibrating  every  heart- 
string,  now  touching  softly  the  tenderest  chords, 
now  sweeping  into  storm  the  whole  diapason  of  feel- 
ing !" 

"It  is  all  the  same,"  she  replied.  ""Words  have 
ever  been  a  burden  to  me.  There  was  once  a  time 
when  I  could  sing  true  song,  though  it  was  a  song 
without  words ;  a  time  when  my  own  thoughts  were 
as  harp-strings,  and  my  heart  was  a  lute  on  which  all 
things  played.  Now,  the  song  draws  the  reluctant 
words  along  with  it,  as  a  gang  of  prisoners  is  drawn 
along  by  the  chain  to  which  they  are  fastened." 

The  count  let  his  head  sink  on  his  breast. 

"  What  does  this  woman  love  ?"  he  thought.    "  Not, 


BALDINE.  131 

even  the  art  she  has  brought  to  supreme  perfection ! 
not  even  her  own  superlative  genius!  Does  she, 
then,  feel  nothing,  believe  nothing,  care  for  nothing, 
hope  for  nothing,  wish  for  nothing  in  this  world  ?" 

And  he  put  these  questions  to  her. 

"You  ask  what  is  my  faith,  my  hope,  my  love?" 
she  replied.  "  I  have  none.  Wliat  I  feel  ?  I  know 
not.  I  only  know  it  is  neither  love  nor  hatred.  Call 
it  indifference,  apathy,  hebetude  —  what  you  will! 
And  this  is  why  I  cannot  become  your  wife.  A 
phantom  is  no  wife,  especially  for  a  man  like  you, 
who  has  yet  a  heart  and  a  faith — a  man  who  hopes 
and  loves." 

"It  was  the  belief  of  the  old  times,"  said  he,  "that 
a  phantom  gets  life  by  drinking  the  blood  of  a  liv- 
ing person.  Take  my  heart's  blood,  Paolina — I  give 
it  willingly.  You  seem  to  yourself  a  phantom,  only 
because  there  is  nothing  in  your  life  for  the  sake  of 
which  you  care  to  live,  nothing  in  the  present  that 
points  to  the  future." 

"And  you  naturally  wonder,"  she  replied,  "why 
I  live,  and  how  I  contrive  to  live,  with  nothing  to 
live  for  ?  But  do  not  suppose,  count,  that  I  could 
live,  even  thus,  without  a  purpose  in  life.  I  have 
one.  From  childhood  the  main-spring  of  my  life  has 
been  an  inveterate  and  inflexible  sense  of  justice. 
This  is  a  cold  motive,  but,  in  my  case  at  least,  it  is  a 
firm  one,  and  it  moves  me  like  a  spring  of  steel." 

"You  have  looked  deep  enough,"  she  continued, 
"into  the  very  simple  mechanism  of  my  life  to 
guess  the  direction  in  which  it  is  kept  going  by  this 
motive.     The  Yicos  Iiave  dealt  by  me,  she  as  the 


182  BALDINE. 

tenderest  mother,  her  liusband  as  the  most  careful 
fatlier.  Cursed  and  rejected  by  ray  own  people,  I 
found  with  them  a  new  home.  The  signora's  broth- 
er was  the  Maitre  de  Chapelle,  Iduni.  He  was  my 
first  music-master,  and  it  was  he  who  afterwards  pro- 
cured me  others  wliom  he  deemed  greater  than  him- 
self. But  to  him  I  owe  more  than  to  all  of  them ; 
and  to  him,  too,  I  owe  even  my  name,  for  he  adopt- 
ed me.  My  German  name,  he  said,  was  impossible 
for  the  cartellone ;  and  rejecting  'Baldine'  as  bar- 
baric, he  always  called  me  '  Paolina.'  When  he  had 
done  for  me  all  he  could  do,  and  before  I  had  yet 
been  able  to  do  anything  for  him,,  he  died. 

"  Signor  Vico,  meanwhile,  had  risked  and  lost  all 
his  hardly  gained  fortune  on  an  enterprise  which, 
not  being  in  the  way  of  his  own  business,  turned  out 
a  dead  failure.  He  has  been  compelled  to  resume 
his  old  labors,  and  every  year  he  migrates  northward 
with  the  swallows,  while  his  wife  remains  with  me. 
It  were  a  great  injustice  did  increasing  years  bring 
no  rest  to  this  excellent  couple.  What  the}'  have  so 
richly  merited  on  my  behalf  it  is  now  in  my  power 
to  procure  them ;  nor  can  1  rest  till  I  have  done 
enough. 

"  As  for  my  Impresario,  I  look  upon  him  only  as 
the  cashier  of  the  Yicos.  Whenever  my  thoughts 
turn  from  them,  it  is  to  wander  back  to  my  former 
home.  The  people  there  have  cruelly  wronged  and 
injured  all  I  loved  in  my  childhood.  My  grandfa- 
ther was  poor,  the  old  woman  who  reared  me  was 
dumb.  That  was  their  only  crime,  yet  these  people 
illtreated  them !     Me,  whom  they  cursed  and  out- 


BALDINE.  133 

lawcd,  they  had  perhaps  some  right  to  punish,  for  I 
Iiad  insulted  their  Faith.  But  what  had  the  two  old 
people  done  to  them  from  the  grave,  or  what  the 
dead  Toniello,  on  whose  desecrated  ashes  fell  the 
bitter  ban  of  their  anathema?  I  say  that  this  was 
an  injustice  which  is  still  to  be  redressed. 

"  My  dead  ones  shall  be  righted.  The  Impresario 
here  is  my  cashier  for  Signor  Vico;  but  I  have  an- 
other in  America,  who  is  my  agent  for  the  purchase 
of  the  whole  forest  quarter  of  Oberau.  Every  house 
and  field  there  belongs  to  the  master  of  the  glass- 
works; the  people  are  only  his  workmen.  Every 
house  and  field  there  I  intend  to  buy,  and  for  work 
and  home  those  people  shall  go  elsewhere.  The  old 
beech-tree,  with  its  dead-j)lanks,  shall  go  with  them, 
and  in  its  stead  I  will  make  a  graveyard  in  the  val- 
ley. The  first  three  monuments  erected  there  will 
contain  the  dear  and  injured  ashes  of  those  whose 
dead-planks  they  have  banished  from  the  place. 

"  My  dead  shall  be  righted  !  In  the  forest  valley 
my  Lombards  shall  live  at  ease,  where  of  old  they 
worked  with  Toniello,  whom  they  loved.  There  shall 
every  Lombard  colonist  have  a  little  house  and  mead- 
ow of  his  own ;  and  the  sole  lord  of  the  manor- 
house,  the  forest,  and  the  glass-works  shall  be  a 
Yico! 

"  One  only  of  that  race  and  name  still  lives  as  to 
whom  I  cannot  yet  tell  you  my  intentions,  for  my 
present  thoughts  of  him  may  be  unjust.  As  yet 
they  are  only  surmises ;  and  as  I  never  trust  to  ap- 
pearances, so  I  have  never  acted  on  suspicion.  But 
could  I  sec  this  man  with  my  own  eyes,  I  know  that 


184  BALDINE. 

I  should  read  in  his,  and  at  once  be  able  to  saj', 
whether  justice  demands  his  death,  or  sanctions  the 
continuance  of  his  worthless  life.  To  the  police  of 
the  province  where  he  still  prowls  and  plunders  I 
have  offered  a  sum  of  ten  thousand  lire  if  they  bring 
this  man  to  me,  alive.  Not  one  of  them  has  yet 
been  able  to  gain  the  reward.  But  I  shall  find  other 
means;  it  would  be  unjust  to  leave  any  untried. 
Have  you  heard,  count,  of  the  notorious  robber,  Bep- 
po,  tlie  captain  of  a  gang  of  banditti  as  ferocious  as 
himself?  That  man  is  also  a  Vico,  and  he  is  the 
man  I  seek." 

The  count  had  listened  to  all  these  words  in  un- 
broken silence. 

What  did  they  reveal  to  him?  Was  it  nothing 
but  the  frigid  impulse  of  the  steel  spring,  to  which 
slie  had  likened  the  sole  motive  power  of  her  life  ? 
Were  there  not  here,  at  least,  glimpses  of  feelings 
warmer  and  more  far-reaching  than  those  which  are 
exclusively  dictated  by  an  abstract  sense  of  justice? 
Was  her  heart  really  so  empty  as  she  supposed?  In 
this  threefold  aim  of  her  life,  was  there  not  some- 
thing like  attachment,  gratitude,  and  hatred? 

Such  were  the  count's  thoughts  while  she  was  speak- 
ing.    But  when  she  ceased  he  rose  without  a  word. 

Paolina  approached  him,  gave  him  her  hand,  and 
said, 

"  You  understand  me  now,  and  what  you  under- 
stand can  you  not  forgive  ?  As  for  what  you  spoke 
of  before  you  knew  all  this,  you  will  not  think  any 
more  of  it,  will  you  ?" 

He  bowed,  but  did  not  answer. 


BALDINE.  185 

Tlicu  liG  took  his  liat,  and  made  a  few  steps  to  the 
door. 

"  We  meet  to-night  at  the  Opera,"  she  called  after 
him. 

"No,"  he  said,  half  turning,  "I  cannot  come  to- 
night." 

She  looked  wistfully  at  him. 

It  would  be  the  first  time  that  he  had  missed  her 
singing. 

"  To-morrow,  then !"  she  added,  with  a  little  dis- 
appointment in  her  tone.    • 

"I  start  to-night,"  he  replied,  "to  look  after  my 
estates." 

Once  more  she  looked  at  him  wistfully,  and  then, 
with  a  bitter  smile,  bowed  her  head,  and  turned 
away. 

He  went  out. 

She  leaned  against  the  window,  and  watched  liis 
carriage  disappearing  down  the  street.  The  bitter 
smile  still  lingered  on  her  face. 

This  was  the  man  to  whom  she  had  told  all,  be- 
fore whom  she  had  opened  her  whole  soul.  To  cure 
him  of  his  passion  she  had  conquered  her  pride;  and 
now  he  had  gone  away  in  a  fit  of  wounded  vanity 
and  egotism — unjust  to  her,  yea,  more  unjust  than 
all  the  others ! 

The  carriage  disappeared  round  the  corner;  the 
bitter  smile  died  about  her  mouth ;  and  the  count 
was  thrown  away  —  with  the  stabbed  ball,  and  the 
broken  jumping-man,  and  the  doctor,  and  the  dumb 
God,  and  the  old  home — to  the  great  rubbish-heap 
of  "Lost  Illusions." 


136  BALDINE. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  great  Diva  continued  to  live  her  lonely  life, 
celebrated  on  the  stage,  unknown  in  the  world,  and 
invisible  at  home.  "When  the  Italian  season  was  over 
she  went  to  England,  wiiere  she  won  new  triumphs. 
A  short  time  before  the  end  of  the  English  Opera 
season  she  received  a  letter  from  Lombardy.  The 
handwriting  of  it  was  unknown  to  her,  but  the  words 
and  signature  were  as  follows : 

"  SiGNOEA, — You  were  right.  Justice  did  de- 
mand the  death  of  Beppo.  He  lives  no  more.  It 
was  not  possible  to  bring  him,  as  you  wished,  alive 
before  3'our  eyes,  but  he  has  made  a  dying  confession 
— that,  impelled  by  jealousy  and  hatred,  he  opened 
the  floodgate  at  Oberan,  and  thus  accomplished  the 
murder  of  Toniello.  Gaetano  Armoneta." 

The  letter  bore  no  address,  neither  was  it  in  the 
liandwriting  of  the  count,  which  was  not  unknown  to 
Paolina. 

Whose  were  the  hands  that  had  slain  Beppo  ?  To 
■whom  had  the  robber  made  that  dreadful  confes- 
sion? 

On  these  points  the  letter  contained  not  a  word 
of  information. 

She  telegraphed  to  the  chief  of  the  police,  and  re- 


BALDINE.  137 

ceived  from  him,  after  some  delay,  a  detailed  account 
of  the  affair. 

From  this  it  appeared  that  Count  Armoneta,  a  per- 
sonal friend  of  the  chief,  had  organized,  at  his  own 
risk  and  cost,  a  powerful  expedition  for  the  capture 
of  the  notorious  robber.  The  whole  band  had  been 
surprised  and  surrounded  by  a  force  which  the  count 
himself  commanded.  Some  of  the  robbers  perished 
in  a  desperate  struggle ;  the  rest  were  taken  prison- 
ers ;  but  their  leader,  Beppo,  had  fallen  in  single  com- 
bat by  the  hand  of  Armoneta.  Of  any  special  con- 
fessions made  by  the  dying  robber  to  the  count,  the 
police  had  no  knowledge.  The  count  had  ever  since 
this  event  been  living  in  great  privacy  on  his  estates 
in  Lombardy. 

Thither  Paolina  hastened,  accompanied  by  Signora 
Vico,  as  soon  as  she  was  able  to  return  to  Italy,  and 
one  afternoon  in  autumn  the  two  ladies  arrived  at 
the  Yilla  Armoneta. 

They  were  informed  that  the  count  was  at  home, 
but  too  unwell  to  receive  visitors.  On  learning  their 
names,  however,  the  count  summoned  the  physician 
who  was  staying  at  his  house ;  and  he,  after  a  short 
conversation  with  his  patient,  conducted  Paolina  into 
a  chamber  from  which  every  ray  of  light  had  been 
carefully  excluded. 

Through  the  darkness  of  this  room,  which  was  as 
black  as  midnight,  the  doctor  guided  the  cantatriee 
to  a  sofa,  and  requesting  her  to  sit  down,  immediate- 
ly withdrew.  Presently  she  felt  a  hand  upon  her 
own.  It  was  the  count's,  who  was  seated  at  the  other 
end  of  the  sofa.     lie  said,  cheerfully, 


138  BALDINE. 

"This  is  just  like  some  grewsome  old  gliost  story, 
is  it  not,  signora?" 

"Don't  laugh,  count!"  said  Paolina.  ''^ Mamma 
mia  at  once  assailed  your  doctor  with  her  usual  vol- 
ubility ;  and  he,  with  of  course  the  oracular  ambi- 
guity of  his  profession,  has  told  her  of  the  inflamma- 
tion in  your  ej^es.  I  do  not  believe  in  doctors,  nor 
in  the  airs  of  sagacity  they  give  themselves,  but  I 
do  know  that  these  affections  of  the  eyes  are  no  laugh- 
ing matter." 

"  Why  not  ?"  said  the  count,  still  cheerf  ullj-.  "  This 
inflammation  is  only  the  result  of  an  ophthalmia  I 
once  had  in  Egypt.  But  you  did  not  come  here  to 
talk  about  my  eyes,  and  you  must  be  impatient  to 
hear  the  confession  of  the  robber  Beppo." 

"^o,"  she  replied  ;  "  you  are  mistaken.  I  came  be- 
cause I  was  haunted  by  a  consciousness  of  injustice 
in  my  own  conduct.  I  have  wronged  you,  count. 
When  we  last  parted,  I  thought  you  a  vain  egotist, 
who  had  requited  the  openness  with  which  I  laid  my 
whole  soul  before  yon  by  simply  turning  your  back 
upon  me.  I  know  now  that  you  went  to  risk  your 
life  for  my  sake." 

"Holy  Virgin!  what  an  idea!"  said  he.  "You 
have  not  been  at  all  unjust.  I  went  away  because  I 
could  no  longer  endure  your  presence.  I  had  need 
of  distraction  from  a  great  inward  trouble;  and, in- 
stead of  hunting  wild  beasts,  as  formerly,  I  took  to 
hunting  robbers,  out  of  pure  dissipation.  Besides, 
was  it  not  my  duty  to  pursue  the  murderer  of  my 
foster-brother  ?" 

"Count, did  yon  even  guess, when  yon  went  away 


BALDINE.  139 

to  set  your  life  against  tlic  life  of  that  man,  that  he 
was  Toniello's  murderer  ?  No ;  you  liave  no  talent 
for  lying !  You  set  out  only  for  my  sake,  and  you 
imperilled  your  life,  only  for  sofnething  which  you 
must  then  have  regarded  as  one  of  my  caprices.  That 
was  foolish — very  foolish  !  But  I  thank  you  for  it. 
I  have  wronged  you,  but  I  am  glad  that  I  have  a 
wrong  to  confess,  and  that  it  is  to  you  this  confession 
is  due," 

"  Allow  me,"  interrupted  the  voice  in  the  dark, 
"  to  tell  you  of  Beppo ;  how  he — " 

"  JSTo ;  we  will  talk  of  all  that  b^'-and-by,  when  you 
are  well  again.  For  then  you  will  come  to  see  me 
at  Naples,  will  you  not?" 

"Yes,  I  will  come." 

"  Soon  ?  How  long  will  you  be  obliged  to  lead 
this  life  of  darkness,  my  poor  friend'^" 

"  Oh,  only  a  short  time — a  few  days." 

"But  do  you  not  find  it  very  tedious?  Are  you 
well  taken  care  of  here  ?     Who  waits  upon  you  ?" 

"  The  old  Baldassare,  my  father's  valet.  He  can- 
not reconcile  himself  to  the  change  which  time  has 
made,  and  would  like  to  carry  me  about  in  his  arms 
as  when  we  were  children,  Toniello  and  I — Toni  on 
one  arm,  and  I  on  the  other.  lie  spoils  me,  as  a 
mother  her  baby.  The  butler,  too,  is  an  heirloom 
from  my  father,  and  so  are  the  other  servants.  The 
old  folks  here  have  known  me  since  I  was  a  child. 
I  am  only  too  much  spoiled  by  them  all." 

"So  much  the  better!  And  now  somebody  else 
wishes  to  enter.  MaTnma  mia,  to  whom  3'ou  are 
greatly  endeared,  is  waiting  outside.     Be  kind  to 


140  BALDIXE. 

lier,  and  make  haste  to  get  well  again !  Addio,  a 
pronto  rivederci  in  Napoli  /" 

While  Signora  Vico  was  sitting  with  the  count, 
Paolina,  in  the  adjacent  saloon,  leaned  against  the 
window,  and  gazed  in  a  soft  reverie  upon  the  gay 
colors  in  wliich  autumn  had  painted  the  vine -gar- 
lands hanging  round  the  elms.  While  she  was  thus 
absorbed,  a  gentleman,  conducted  by  Baldassare,  en- 
tered the  room,  and  at  once  began  a  conversation 
with  her  about  the  master  of  the  house. 

"  It  is  a  sad  case,"  he  said — "  a  very  sad  case !" 

"What?"  asked  Paolina,  startled. 

"Well,"  said  the  stranger,  "  the  loss  of  the  one 
eye  is  a  misfortune  easily  endured  ;  for  after  a  little 
while  a  man  sees  with  one  eye  as  well  as  with  two. 
But,  in  the  abnormally  depressed  condition  of  the  pa- 
tient, I  greatly  fear  that  he  will  also  lose  the  other 
eye.  There  is  a  dangerous  want  of  nervous  energy 
and  rallying  power — " 

Paolina  had  risen  and  approached  the  stranger. 

"  How  ?"  she  said,  falteringly ;  "  what  do  you 
mean  ?     That  one  eye  is  lost  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  the  robber's  bullet  fortunately  destroyed 
only  one  eye ;  but,  my  dear  signora,  the  eyes  are 
like  the  Siamese  Twins — the  one  always  participates 
in  the  suffering  of  the  other.  Add  to  this  the 
count's  profound  dejection  of  spirits,  which  in  turn 
affects  the  physical  stamina.  There  is  in  the  consti- 
tution, or,  at  least,  in  the  disposition  of  the  organs, 
no  natural  healthy  resistance  to  the  development  of 
the  mischief;  for  body  and  soul  are  also  Siamese 
Twins." 


BALDINE.  141 

Slgnora  Vico  came  out,  and  tlie  stranger  was  con- 
ducted by  Baldassare  to  the  count's  room. 

Paolina  asked  Signora  Vico  to  wait  a  little  before 
they  left  the  house.  She  turned  again  to  the  win- 
dow, and  stared  at  the  gay  vine-garlands,  but  with- 
out seeing  them.  She  thought  of  the  half- blind 
man  there,  in  the  adjoining  room — how  cheerfully 
he  had  laughed,  and  how  much  he  had  concealed 
from  her!  An  old  saying,  heard  long  ago  in  her 
childhood,  was  sounding  again  in  her  ears — 

^''Not  everything  laughs  when  it  is  glad,  hut  nei- 
ther does  everything  cry  vjhen  it  is  hurt^ 

Baldassare  came  out  of  the  room,  and  she  asked 
after  the  name  of  the  stranger. 

It  was  a  famous  oculist  from  the  capital,  who  had 
twice  before  been  at  the  chateau  for  consultation 
with  the  local  doctor.  If  any  one  could  save  the 
padrone,  it  was  he. 

Paolina  cast  a  disdainful  look  at  the  door  through 
which  the  famous  oculist  had  disappeared,  and  the 
old  bitter  smile  played  about  her  mouth. 

Then  she  had  a  long  conference  with  Baldassare 
and  the  butler. 

When  the  famous  gentleman  had  departed,  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders,  Baldassare  guided  the  count  out 
of  the  room  where  the  physician  had  examined  his 
eye  back  to  his  wonted  seat  on  the  sofa  in  the  dark 
chamber. 

But  to-day  the  count  sat  down  in  the  other  corner 
of  the  sofa,  where  Paolina  had  sat  before,  and  sent 
Baldassare  away.    lie  wished  to  be  alone. 

All  was  still  in  that  room,  and  all  was  still  out- 


143  BALDINE. 

side.  Nothing  was  audible  to  the  sufferer,  in  the 
darkness  where  he  sat  alone,  but  the  throbbing  of 
his  own  pain  in  the  sore  eye-socket.  Nothing,  till 
suddenly  a  voice,  a  hand,  and — oh,  what  a  rushing 
welcome  glowed  in  the  darkness  to  that  voice  and 
hand !  It  was  the  voice  of  Amneris,  the  hand  of 
Fenella.  Tlie  voice  which  had  taken  possession  of 
his  whole  being  with  its  mysterious  charm,  tlie  hand 
which  could  give  such  deep  expression  to  the  keys 
of  the  commonest  piano ! 

And  the  song — ah,  that  was  the  dear  old  song  that 
Marnccia  used  to  sing  in  the  days  of  their  childhood 
to  Toniello  and  to  him — 

"  Oh,  were  I  slumbering  deep 
In  death's  eternal  night — " 

But  the  song  could  go  no  further.  At  the  feet  of 
her  who  sung  it  lay  a  man,  with  his  face  buried  in 
the  folds  of  her  dress,  sobbing  like  a  child. 

She  lifted  her  hand  from  the  keys,  and  laid  it 
soothingly  on  his  head. 

"  Gaetano,  these  tears  are  injuring  the  other  eye 
which  Beppo  has  left  you  !" 

"Paolina!" 

"  Ilush  !  I  now  know  all.  Will  you  suffer  your- 
self to  become  quite  blind,  and  never  see  me  again  in 
this  world?  You  used  to  like  to  look  at  Fenella, 
and  now — " 

"  Ah,  noio,  Paolina !" 

"Yes,  now,"  continued  the  sweet  voice,  calmly, 
"is  it  not  just  that  she  should  help  to  while  away 
the  dark,  tedious  hours  you  endure   only  for  her 


BALDINE.  143 

sake?  You  like  music.  I  shall  play  and  sing  to 
you.  Is  it  not  natural  that  my  eye  should  fill  the 
place  of  yours,  which  suffers  thus  for  me?  Hence- 
forth, therefore,  it  is  upon  my  arm  that  you  will 
take  your  daily  walk  in  this  dark  room.  I  shall 
read  to  you  by  a  dark-lantern ;  Mamma  mia  and  I 
have  already  settled  ourselves  in  the  other  wing  of 
your  house.  This  is  only  simple  justice.  What  do 
you  find  strange  in  it?" 

Gaetano  had  risen. 

"It  is  impossible,  Paolina !"  he  exclaimed.  "Ifc 
would  be  the  ruin  of  your  reputation,  and  I  cannot 
allow  it.     You  must  go  away  to-day — at  once !" 

"My  reputation  ?  Surely,"  she  said,  "you  cannot 
seriously  suppose  that  I  care  for  such  things?  What 
is  to  me  the  opinion  of  the  world?" 

"You  must  carry  out  your  engagement  to  the 
Opera.     I  shall  never — " 

"Signora  Vico  has  already  sent  my  resignation  to 
the  Imj)resariu.  Baldassare  posted  the  letter  just 
now.  Child,  have  you  any  other  objection  to  raise  ? 
Hush  !  give  me  your  arm  !" 

And  she  led  him  back  to  the  sofa-corner.  Then 
she  returned  to  the  piano,  feeling  her  way  to  it 
through  the  darkness,  and  sung  to  him  all  the  na- 
tional songs  she  knew. 

Presently  Signora  Vico  came  in,  and  chatted  away 
to  him  with  such  incessant  volubility  that  at  last  she 
fairly  sent  him  to  sleep. 

Not  a  single  moment  was  Gaetano  ever  left  alone. 
By  night  the  old  Baldassare  remained  with  him,  and 
by  day  one  or  other  of  the  two  ladies. 


144  BALDINE. 

Signora  Yico  possessed  the  gift  of  indefatigable 
chatter.  Paolina  sung  to  him  bj  degrees  her  whole 
Opera  repertoire,  or  she  read  aloud  for  hours  by  the 
light  of  a  lamp  specially  constructed  for  the  occa- 
sion. With  Dottorc  Corn,  the  count's  physician,  she 
never  exchanged  a  word ;  but  Signora  Yico  talked 
with  him  all  the  more,  and  many  a  disquieting  re- 
mark escaped  her  before  Faolina.  Such  remarks, 
however,  could  tell  Paolina  nothing  about  the  con- 
tino  which  she  had  not  observed  for  herself. 

As  for  Gaetano,  his  days  of  tediousness  were  over. 
There  were  moments  when  lie  appeared  even  hap- 
py, but  they  were  brief,  and  always  followed  by 
long  hours  of  deep  melancholy ;  and  the  inflamma- 
tion of  the  eye  increased  more  and  more. 

Once,  when  Paolina  had  ceased  singing  to  him, 
and  was  sitting  quite  still,  he  imagined  himself  alone, 
and  murmured, 

"Alwaj's  night!  never  more  to  see  the  light  of 
day!  And  yet  how  easily  could  I  bear  it,  were  she 
always  here !" 

All  at  once  he  felt  her  hand  upon  his  own,  and 
that  deep,  sweet  voice  of  hers  answered  him  quietly, 

"  And  why  should  she  not  be  always  here  1  If  it 
makes  you  happy,  Gaetano,  I  will  always  stay  by 
you.     I  will  even  become  your  wife  if  you  wish  it." 

Again  he  was  sobbing  at  her  feet,  and  again  she 
laid  her  hand  soothingly  upon  his  head. 

Then  she  left  the  room  softly,  and  Gaetano  re- 
mained alone  with  his  new  felicity. 

Several  days  after  this  occurrence  the  famous  oc- 
ulist came  again,  and  was  agreeably  astonished  by 


BALDINE.  145 

the  changed  condition  of  his  patient.  The  count 
laughed  and  jested,  and  seemed  in  irrepressiblj  high 
spirits. 

The  great  man,  after  a  careful  examination,  de- 
clared that  his  patient's  room  might  at  once  be  par- 
tially undarkened.  The  inflammation  in  the  socket 
of  the  lost  eye  was  already  healed.  The  safety  of 
the  remaining  eye  was  now  assured ;  and  if  the  ad- 
mission of  light  were  judiciously  adjusted  to  the 
progress  of  its  recovery,  the  cure  would  be  com- 
pleted in  a  few  days. 

"It  is  useless,"  he  continued,  "for  me  to  come 
again  ;  and  in  taking  leave  of  you,  count,  I  may  now 
tell  you  that  I  had  at  first  but  very  little  hope  of 
your  case.  You  were  threatened  with  entire  blind- 
ness. By-the-bye,  may  I  ask  who  was  the  interest- 
ing lady  I  met  in  your  drawing-room  on  the  occa- 
sion of  my  last  visit  ?" 

"  My  bride." 

"  Ah,  I  congratulate  you,  and — understand !" 

"  Understand  what,  dottore  1" 

"  Signer  Conte,  I  understand  wliat  has  banished 
the  wretched  dejection  in  which  1  found  you  some 
time  ago.  AVhen  I  tell  you  that  this  greatly  in- 
creased the  inflammation,  3'^ou,  too,  will  understand 
who  has  been  your  real  oculist.  Not  Dottore  Corri 
— not  I,  but  your  bride.  Remember  me  to  my  amia- 
ble colleague  !     I  lay  down  my  arms  before  her.    Ad- 

dio,  conte  !" 

«-  ->f-  •^t  *  -jt  *  -s- 

From  the  subdued  light  Gaetano  was  at  last  led 
out  into  the  full  daylight. 
10 


146  BALDINE. 

It  had  been  his  wish  that  Paolina  should  be  liis 
guide  on  that  occasion.  Her  eyes  must  be  the  first 
sight  that  met  his  own. 

In  the  quiet  look  of  those  eyes  did  he  find  what 
he  sought? 

He  said  nothing;  but  the  ardent  gaze  with  which 
his  own  solitary  eye  long  searched  their  depths  sunk 
slowly  to  the  ground. 

"It  will  come,"  lie  thought,  "  by-and-by  !" 

But  it  did  not  come — neither  in  the  days  of  their 
betrothal,  nor  on  the  day  of  their  wedding.  Once 
only  a  warmer  glow — warmer,  but  not  with  the 
warmth  he  longed  for — kindled  those  sad  blue  eyes 
of  hers:  when  she  found  among  the  wedding-gifts 
the  deed  he  had  completed  in  her  name  for  the  pur- 
cliase  of  the  forest  valley  of  Oberau.  Silently  she 
pressed  Gaetano's  hand  in  gratitude  for  that  gift. 

The  wedding  was  celebrated,  according  to  her 
wish,  in  private  and  with  great  simplicity.  Their 
honey-moon  was  passed  in  visiting  the  various  cha- 
teaus  and  villas  belonging  to  the  count's  extensive 
property.  Paolina  had  no  wish  either  to  travel  or 
to  go  into  the  world;  and  it  was  in  compliance  with 
her  request  that  Gaetano  now  undertook  the  person- 
al management  of  his  large  estates.  By  degrees  he 
found  an  interest  in  the  occupation. 

All  the  while  Paolina  would  sit  at  home  playing 
on  the  piano,  singing,  reading,  or  listening  to  the 
chatter  of  Signora  Vico,  whose  husband  was  now, 
through  Gaetano's  recommendation  and  help,  at  the 
head  of  a  great  enterprise.  Or  else,  she  walked  alone 
under  the  elms,  and  watched  the  horizon  with  her 


BALDINE.  147 

old  listless  look.  Every  evening  when  Gaetano  came 
home  her  eyes  greeted  him  with  the  same  soft  but 
indifferent  tranquillity ;  yet  every  morning  he  went 
out  to  his  business,  hoping  for  a  change  which  never 
came  in  those  quiet  eyes.  Her  demeanor  towards 
him  was  always  that  of  a  tenderly  devoted  sister. 

He  sought  to  surround  her  so  completely  with  the 
evidence  of  his  love  that  at  every  step  she  must  no- 
tice something  he  had  done  for  her.  And  how  dif- 
ficult it  was  to  know  what  he  could  do  to  please  her ! 
She  never  asked  for  anything,  and  ever  since  her  wed- 
ding-day she  had  been  very  sparing  of  words.  But 
Gaetano  was  learning  to  spell  out  her  face  as  a  child 
spells  out  its  lesson-book ;  and  by  degrees  his  love 
Avas  able  to  read  and  understand  the  thoughts  work- 
ing behind  her  smooth  white  brow,  as  clearly  as  if 
it  were  made  of  glass. 

Thus  he  read  there,  distinctl}^,  the  reasons  why  she 
became  liis  wife.  It  had  not  been  from  love,  but 
from  the  wish  to  redress  an  injustice  unconsciously 
done  to  the  man  who  had  risked  his  life  for  her. 
And  she  remained  kind  and  good  to  him,  because 
that  also  was  an  obligation  of  justice. 

So  long  as  his  illness  and  helplessness  had  claimed 
her  constant  personal  help,  and  filled  her  hours  with 
fatiguing  tasks,  a  warmer  stream  of  blood  had  seemed 
to  run  through  her  body,  and  a  brighter  liglit  to 
gleam  in  her  soul ;  but  it  was  only  as  if  she  again 
were  standing  on  the  stage,  and  animating  some  ideal 
image  with  a  life  not  given  to  her  own  habitual  self. 
And  again,  as  of  old,  he,  the  spectator  of  her  per- 
formance, had   mistaken   the  ideal   image  for  the 


148  BALDINE. 

living  woman.  The  motive  power  of  the  whole 
performance  was  only  a  strong,  clear,  coldly  clear, 
impulse  of  justice.  And  now  that  he  was  well  again, 
and  could  see  with  one  eye  as  well  as  formerly  with 
two,  her  task  was  finished,  and  justice  satisfied. 

The  eyes  in  which  Gaetano  read  his  dreary  lesson 
were  not  those  of  Fenella  or  Amneris.  They  were 
the  tranquil,  indifferent  eyes  with  which  the  great 
Diva  used  to  look  down  upon  the  passionately  agi- 
tated public  when  she  had  finished  her  part. 

He  said  nothing  about  it;  but  all  night  long  he 
lay  awake,  silently  invoking  from  Heaven  some  star- 
beam  to  rekindle  in  Paolina's  eyes  the  light  that  was 
gone  out  of  them ;  and  all  day  long  he  wandered 
about,  searching  a  wild  world  of  troubled  thoughts 
for  something  to  recall  to  Paolina's  lips  the  smile 
that  seemed  fled  from  them  forever. 

And  he  searched  in  vain  ! 

Eye  and  lip  retained  their  cold  tranquillity.  Yea, 
there  even  came  a  time  when  the  woman  he  adored 
avoided  him  more  and  more,  as  if  the  sight  of  him 
afflicted  her. 

He  suffered  silently,  and  bore  his  torment  without 
showing  it.  He  even  rode  away  to  the  farthest 
farms  upon  his  propert}',  and  remained  absent  for 
days  together,  perceiving  that  his  presence  distressed 
her.  It  was  as  if  he  had  done  her  an  injury  of 
which  she  was  too  proud  to  complain. 

Then  came  days  more  anxious  still,  and  full  of 
torment,  each  one  of  them  a  horrible  eternity,  when 
Paolina  was  lying  ill  and  would  not  see  him. 

Nor  was  even  the  Dottore  Corri  permitted  to  ap- 


BALDINE.  149 

proacli  her.  By  licr  orders  the  doctor  was  refused 
admittance  to  the  lioiise.  Signora  Yico  was  her  sole 
companion. 

At  last,  one  day,  Mamma  Yico  smilingly  called  her 
Contino  into  Paolina's  room. 

This  is  a  strange  surprise  to  him,  for  he  has  not 
seen  a  smile  for  many  a  long  day  upon  any  face  in 
the  whole  honse. 

He  enters  softly.  Paolina's  face  looks  like  a  faint 
Avhite  rose  ]  but  glowing  like  a  little  red  rose,  and 
fast  asleep  in  its  cradle  beside  her,  is  her  baby. 
Gaetano  stands  still,  between  the  bed  and  the  cradle. 
He  is  quite  upset,  and  does  not  venture  to  look 
across  to  Paolina,  fearing  to  aggravate  her  recent 
aversion  to  him.  He  is  grateful  that  she  allows  him 
to  stay  near  her,  and  to  look  at  the  child.  Only,  as 
often  as  he  thinks  she  does  not  notice  it,  he  glances 
towards  her  bed  ;  and  when  she  closes  her  eyes,  he 
hovers  round  it  in  distant  circles.  Her  eyes  remain 
shut ;  so,  ever  and  anon,  he  looks  at  her  from  afar ; 
then  he  steals  hesitatingly  forward  on  tiptoe,  and 
looks  passionately  upon  her,  a  little  nearer,  and  ever 
nearer  still.  There  are  the  beautiful  long  golden 
tresses  floating  loose  over  the  white  pillow !  Long 
and  adoringly  he  gazes  on  them ;  then,  stooping  low, 
he  kisses  them  cautiously — that  cannot  awake  her ! 

But  she  opens  her  eyes,  over  which  the  lids  had 
fallen  only  from  exhaustion,  and  smiles  at  him. 

There  is  a  melancholy,  but  sweet,  softness  in  this 
smile. 

He  only  says,  "  Paolina !"  and  goes  out  quickly. 
She  lets  hira  go,  and  does  not  call  hirh  back. 


160  BALDINE. 

She  has  noticed  how  tenderly  his  voice  trembled 
in  that  fervent  utterance  of  her  name,  and  that  the 
tears  were  standing  in  his  eyes;  and  half  closing  her 
own,  she  looks  again  upon  the  cradle.  A  strange  rosy 
flush  rises,  slowly  suffusing  the  mother's  pale  face, 
and  mingles  with  the  smile  about  her  lips.  Her 
blue  eyes  open  suddenly,  large  and  wide ;  and  in 
them  is  glowing  a  celestial  splendor.  It  seems  to 
have  streamed  into  them  from  the  cradle  on  which 
they  are  gazing,  and  they  are  filled  with  the  tender 
radiance  of  it. 

This  is  the  star-beam  which  Gaetano,  in  his  sleep- 
less nights,  had  invoked  from  heaven. 

The  child  there  in  the  cradle  lias  brought  it  down 
with  him.  And  the  celestial  splendor  glows  in  Pao- 
lina's  eyes  every  time  that  she  looks  upon  her  child. 

Once  Gaetano  was  blessed  with  a  gleam  of  it  for 
himself. 

That  was  when,  returning  from  the  baptism,  he 
put  the  child  into  her  arms.  She  had  loft  to  him 
the  clioice  of  the  infant's  name. 

"  What  is  thy  name,  little  one  ?"  she  asked  the  baby 
when  it  was  brought  back  to  her.  But  the  baby  did 
not  seem  to  appreciate  the  new  dignity  conferred  on 
him,  and  he  only  cried  lustily. 

Then  Gaetano  said,  smiling,  "Don't  you  under- 
stand, Paolina,  that  he  is  trying  to  say  to  you,  'My 
name  is  Toniello  ?' " 

In  spite  of  the  cheerful  tone,  and  in  spite  of  the 
smile  with  which  he  said  it,  his  voice  trembled. 

Paolina  stretched  her  hand  to  him,  and  clasped  his 
own. 


BALDINE.  151 

She  said  nothing,  but  her  husband  saw  the  star- 
beam  from  her  eyes,  resting,  this  time,  on  himself. 

The  little  Toniello  was  the  incarnation  of  injus- 
tice. 

He  seemed  to  think  that  the  whole  world  was 
made  to  wait  upon  him,  and  that  the  universe  exist- 
ed only  for  the  reception  of  his  commands,  and  the 
prompt  satisfaction  of  all  his  wishes.  He  cried,  at 
first,  for  the  mere  sake  of  crying ;  he  cried,  after- 
wards, for  nourishment ;  and  then  he  cried  for  Heav- 
en only  knows  how  many  different  and  incredible 
reasons.  The  capacity  of  noise  contained  in  that 
little  lump  of  rosy  flesh  was  inexhaustible.  When- 
ever the  poor  mother  fell  into  one  of  her  habitual 
reveries,  and  began  to  think  of  old  days  and  events, 
her  little  tyrant  immediately  set  np  an  intolerable 
howl.  By  night  his  shrill  small  voice  left  her  no 
sleep,  and  by  day  it  vouchsafed  her  no  repose.  For 
her  the  daily  reverie,  the  nightly  dream,  was  over. 

All  this  was  exceedingly  unjust. 

But  she  hugged  the  incarnate  injustice  to  her  bos- 
om, and  refused  to  part  with  it  by  day  or  night.  She 
said  cheerfully  that  no  one  but  herself  could  under- 
stand tlie  child's  cries,  and  that  the  short  intervals 
of  broken  sleep,  which  were  all  those  cries  allowed 
her,  were  the  most  refreshing  she  had  ever  had,  be- 
cause so  sound  and  dreamless. 

Toniello  already  possessed  a  remarkable  power  of 
making  his  will  respected.  He  disdainfully  reject- 
ed his  nourishment  when  it  was  given  to  him,  and 
roared  for  it  all  the  more  vehemently  the  next  mo- 
ment.    He  insisted  on  having  light  about  him  when 


163  BALDINE. 

it  was  dark,  and  vice  versa.  He  was  intolerably 
querulous  till  his  cradle  was  rocked,  and  then  he  was 
not  to  be  pacified  till  they  made  it  stand  still.  In 
the  shortest  possible  time,  and  with  the  greatest  pos- 
sible case,  this  baby  had  reduced  to  abject  subjection 
his  father,  Signora  Yico,  and  the  old  Baldassare. 
They  became  liis  slaves,  but  the  infatuated  mother 
had  been,  from  the  very  outset,  the  unresisting  in- 
strument of  his  capricious  despotism. 

That  was  unjust. 

Yet  althoucfh  the  innumerable  whims  and  insati- 
able  exactions  of  her  little  tyrant  left  the  poor  wom- 
an no  time  to  breathe,  they  were  all  welcomed  and 
extolled  by  her  with  the  liveliest  satisfaction,  as  sin- 
gularly promising  indications  of  a  resolute  and  man- 
ly character.  She  was  proud  of  her  slavery.  It  was 
one  of  Toniello's  amusements  to  thrust  his  little  fin- 
gers into  his  mother's  eyes,  which  gleamed  with  grate- 
ful pleasure  while  they  winced  and  watered  under 
the  operation.  He  also  took  a  special  and  ferocious 
delight  in  pulling  her  golden  tresses,  and  trying  to 
tn»  them  out. 

This  also  was  unjust. 

But  his  patient  victim  wiped  the  tears  from  her 
eyes  and  smiled  when  the  tiny  tormentor  had  got  a 
good  handful  of  her  beautiful  hair  plucked  out  in 
Jiis  little  clinched  fist;  for  then  it  was  evident  to 
her  that  her  boy  was  thoroughly  enjoying  himself. 

Kor  was  it  less  than  a  gross  injustice  that  Toniello, 
in  spite  of  his  poor  mother's  increasing  tenderness 
and  boundless  devotion,  greatly  preferred  being  in 
the  arms  of  his  father ;  that  the  father's  harsh  beard 


BALDINE.  153 

pleased  him  better  than  the  mother's  soft  hah- ;  that 
he  crowed  louder  on  the  father's  knee  than  in  the 
mother's  lap,  and  liked  no  plaything  half  as  well  as 
the  paternal  forefinger. 

But  the  poor  mother  only  smiled,  and  said  noth- 
ing. 

And  so  in  this  way  the  injustice  went  on.  Ay, 
and  in  many  other  ways  too ! 

A  path  stretched  straight  from  her  present  life  to 
the  earliest  cliildhood  of  this  woman.  It  was  the 
Path  of  Justice ;  but  of  that  severe  Justice  that 
walks  with  bandaged  eyes,  into  which  compassion 
may  never  steal,  lest  the  hand  of  the  executioner 
tremble,  and  the  sword  of  judgment  falter  as  it  falls. 
Narrow  as  the  sword's  edge  is  tlie  path ;  and  thus 
far,  the  woman  had  walked  it  without  staggering, 
without  stumbling,  without  looking  to  the  right  or 
to  the  left;  strict  in  love  as  in  hatred — an  eye  for 
an  eye,  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth !  Now,  however, 
had  come  a  day  when  Injustice  clothed  itself  in  flesh 
and  blood  and  became  a  child — her  own !  With  its 
little  hands,  that  baby  has  softly  diverted  her  from 
the  narrow  path,  and  even  without  her  knowing  it ! 

Whither  the  child  leads  lier  now,  thither  had  a 
graybeard  once  pointed  out  the  way  to  her. 

^^AU  is  for  the  best,  only  one  must  find  it  out^''  the 
old  man  had  told  her. 

She  did  not  imderstand  him  then,  did  not  find 
the  way  he  spoke  of ;  but  now  she  follows  the  child 
step  by  step,  further  and  further,  far  beyond  the  old 
man's  purpose;  for  even  there,  where  she  finds  noth- 
ing good,  she  believes  all  just. 


154  BALDINE. 

In  this  process,  the  incarnate  injustice  thrives 
bravely,  and  grows  apace. 

Its  first  experiments  on  liuman  speech  are  but 
awkward  stammerings  of  its  little  tongue.  The 
stammerings  are  utterly  senseless,  but  the  mother 
detects  in  them  a  rare  precocity  of  thought.  They 
are  not  melodious,  but  the  great  singer  thinks  that 
the  most  sublime  masters  of  music  have  never  com- 
posed or  conceived  anything  so  enchanting. 

The  little  creature's  first  articulate  word  is  not 
"Mamma,"  but  "Papa."    And  the  mother  says, 

"  Of  course !  how  intelligent !  '  Papa '  is  so  much 
easier  to  pronounce !" 

The  woman  who  had  been  so  sparing  of  words 
ever  since  her  wedding-day,  and  indeed  throughout 
her  whole  childhood,  now  chatters  all  day  long.  To- 
niello  wishes  it;  and  words  must  come,  even  when 
ideas  fail. 

The  child  wants  to  know  the  name  of  this  and 
that,  in  such  a  hurry !  He  insists  on  knowing  at  once 
what  the  people  are  doing  down  there  in  the  garden. 

"  They  are  weeding,"  says  the  mother. 

"Weeding,"  he  repeats,  with  a  grave  face.  Sud- 
denly he  laughs  aloud,  and  repeats  the  word  ever  so 
many  times — "Weeding!  weeding!  weeding!" 

The  sound  is  the  main  point  with  him  ;  he  enjoys 
the  word,  he  does  not  trouble  himself  about  the 
idea.  AVhat  "  weeding"  is,  concerns  him  not,  but  so 
is  it  called  ;  and  the  word  sounds  well. 

The  mother  never  gets  tired  of  producing  for  him 
all  day  long  such  wonderful  artificial  sounds.  One 
day  the  little  tyrant  makes  the  discovery  that  the 


BALDINE.  155 

singing  of  his  mamma  is  no  bad  thing.  And  so  she 
sings  to  him ;  not  at  the  piano,  not  from  notes,  not 
what  she  sung  on  the  stage,  not  what  the  great  mas- 
ters have  taught  her,  not  words  at  all!  She  sings  as 
she  sung  in  the  daj'sgone  bj,  when  she  herself  was  a 
child  ;  as  she  sung  in  her  girlhood,  to  herself,  unheard 
in  the  lonely  forest.  A  song  without  words,  that  rises 
in  her  heart  from  the  long-silenced  depths  of  far-dis- 
tant 3'ears,  sweet,  solemn,  mysterious,  sounding  like 
the  flutter  of  the  birds,  and  the  breathing  of  the 
wind,  in  the  forest  branches. 

Gaetano  leans,  in  the  adjoining  room,  against  the 
door,  and  listens. 

The  phantom  has  come  to  life,  he  thinks,  the  emp- 
ty spirit  lias  found  a  joy  to  fill  it,  and  the  aimless 
days  a  purpose.  But  it  is  not  his  heart's  blood  that 
has  given  life  to  the  phantom,  or  joy  to  the  life 
restored.  One  Toniello  took  it  away,  another  has 
given  it  back.  Between  the  two,  he  stands  aside — 
forgotten ! 

And  there,  in  the  outer  room,  unseen,  unmissed — 
out  of  sight,  out  of  mind — alone,  he  stands;  listen- 
ing wildly,  heart-brokenly,  to  that  strange,  wonderful 
song  —  a  song  which  is  no  longer  the  product  of 
skill,  but  a  spontaneous  utterance  of  pure  emotion. 
It  is  the  song  of  which  she  told  him  once — ah,  how 
vividly  her  words  came  back  to  him  as  he  listened 
to  it  now ! 

"  There  was  a  time  when  I  sung  true  song,  though 
without  words ;  a  time  when  my  own  thoughts  were 
like  harp-strings,  and  ray  heart  a  lute  upon  which  all 
things  played." 


156  BALDINE. 

In  tliose  days  she  sung  that  song  for  Toniello; 
and  now  again  it  is  to  Toniello  that  she  sings  it. 
Between  the  two  Toniellos,  where  may  Gaetano 
stand?  —  aside,  unwanted,  unnoticed!  Ilis  place 
knows  hiin  not. 

In  that  moment  the  living  man  envied  the  dead. 

Suddenly  he  started  up,  shuddering,  rushed  out  of 
the  house,  leaped  on  to  his  horse,  and  rode  fierce  and 
fast — away,  no  matter  where ! 

He  was  afraid  of  himself.  He  felt  for  a  moment 
something  like  jealousy  of  his  own  child. 

Had  the  Dark  Angel,  who  hovers  forever  over  all 
that  lives,  looked,  in  that  moment,  into  Gaetano's 
heart?  For  he  suddenly  folded  his  sombre  wings, 
and  settled  down  by  the  tiny  cot  of  the  little  Toni- 
ello. 

Softly  that  angel  touches  with  his  cold  finger  the 
restless  children  of  earth ;  but  beneath  its  touch  the 
stricken  ones  struggle  painfully  for  breath,  the  throat 
rattles,  the  limbs  stiffen,  the  fluttering  life  departs. 
Sometimes,  however,  the  angel  falls  asleep,  weary  of 
his  endless  work,  which  ceases  not  by  night  or  da}'; 
and  then,  with  relaxing  touch,  the  cold  finger  slips 
from  the  little  throat,  and  the  child  breathes  again. 

Over  the  cot  of  the  little  Toniello  stoops  the  An- 
gel of  Destruction. 

The  feathers  of  the  angel's  wings  are  compressed 
sharply  into  the  form  of  a  scythe.  His  unseen  arm 
is  stretched  over  the  cot,  his  unseen  eyes  are  fixed 
upon  the  child,  and  his  unseen  finger  has  touched 
the  little  forehead.  There,  unflitting,  day  and  night, 
sits  the  Dark  Angel.     Doth  he  drowse  and  shim- 


BALDINE.  157 

ber  ?  dotli  ho  wake  and  watch  ?  Is  he  weary  of  his 
work,  or  only  patient  —  that  he  sits  there  so  long, 
never  flitting?     Who  knows? 

The  physicians,  summoned  by  Gaetano,  are  unable 
to  read  those  unseen  ej'es.  They  know  of  no  potion 
to  lull  that  angel  into  slumber,  and  it  is  not  in  hu- 
man power  to  relax  his  stiffening  finger. 

The  mother  utters  not  a  word  to  these  men  ;  she 
knows  that  they  are  powerless.  Nov  does  she  breathe 
one  prayer  to  God,  nor  lean  her  aching  head  upon 
her  husband's  breast. 

She  stands  at  the  feet  of  her  child,  and  stares  at 
the  Destroying  Angel,  who  waits  at  the  child's  head 
— never  flitting. 

Help  is  nowhere  to  be  found,  either  on  earth  or  in 
heaven ;  she  does  not  even  think  of  seeking  it.  She 
only  longs  wildly,  impotently,  to  breathe  her  own 
breath  into  the  child's  suffocating  throat,  to  offer  her 
own  throat  to  the  unseen  strangling  finger,  and  ran- 
som with  her  own  life  the  life  of  her  little  darling. 

Thus  the  angel  and  the  mother  stand,  night  and 
day,  staring  at  eacli  other  across  the  body  of  the 
child — he  at  the  head,  she  at  the  feet. 

To  and  fro  between  them,  Gaetano  wanders  rest- 
lessl}'. 

The  man  who  liad  suffered  in  silence  the  most 
poignant  grief,  who  had  braved  the  most  pestilen- 
tial climates,  and  endured  the  most  violent  exertions, 
is  now  completely  broken  down. 

Three  physicians  have  passed  the  night  in  the 
chateau.  They  watch.  Gaetano  talks  with  them 
falteringly,  confusedly.     He  casts  a  long  look  upon 


158  BALDINE. 

liis  child,  then  upon  his  wife,  and  creeps  away,  stag- 
gering like  a  drunken  man. 

Slowly,  the  shadow  of  night  wanders  across  the 
earth.  Loiteringlj,  the  dawn  approaches.  The 
morning  glow  begins  to  glimmer,  casting  a  pale-red 
gleam  into  Gaetano's  chamber. 

At  last  the  first  sunbeam  glitters  through  the 
window-pane,  and  falls  on  the  golden  hair  of  Pao- 
lina,  who  has  entered  softly,  as  silent  as  the  beam  it- 
self. 

Gaetano  kneels  at  the  prie-dieu,  his  head  buried 
in  his  hands,  and  sobs  aloud.  lie  feels  that  all  is 
over. 

Paolina  steals  up  to  him,  and  softly  strokes  his 
arm — for  the  first  time — as  she  used  to  stroke  the 
arm  of  her  father  when  she  was  a  child,  and  Toniel- 
lo's  in  the  days  of  her  girlhood's  brief  happiness. 

"  Gaetano !"  she  says,  in  a  low  voice,  almost  a 
whisper. 

Gaetano  springs  up  with  a  ravaged  face.  His 
feverish  eyes  peruse  the  features  of  his  wife. 

Paolina  is  weeping — for  the  first  time. 

Till  now,  he  has  never  seen  her  shed  tears.  He 
knows  that  these  are  the  first  she  has  shed  since  her 
childhood. 

"Dead, dead!"  he  thinks, shuddering. 

But  through  Paolina's  tears  a  sunny  smile  steals 
out. 

"Gaetano,"  she  says,  "our  child  lives.  He  is 
saved !" 

And  with  a  wild,  joyful  cry  from  the  depths  of 
a  frozen  ocean  suddenly  thawed,  she  flings  herself 


BALDINE.  159 

upon  her  husband's  breast,  throws  her  arms  about 
his  neck,  and  weeps  aloud. 

All  tlie  long  woe  of  her  desolate  soul,  all  the  re- 
strained tears  of  a  life-long  suffering,  she  is  weeping 
ont  on  that  true  heart,  which  has  become  so  dear  to 
her. 

He  knows  it  when  he  gently  lifts  up  her  head 
and  looks  into  her  eyes.  He  has  no  need  to  ask  it, 
but  yet  she  tells  him, 

"I  love  you,  Gaetano!  1  love  you  very  dearly 
and  deeply,  only  I  did  not  know  it." 

And  then  her  hand  glides  again,  caressingl}',  across 
his  arm. 

"  Go,  now,"  she  murmurs,  "  to  our  child,  Gaetano  ! 
Embrace  for  me  the  good  Dottore  Corri,  as  well  as 
the  other  physician.  I  will  follow  you,  but  let  me 
linger  here  a  moment.  I  wish  first  to  pray,  Gaetano 
— to  pray  to  your  God !" 

He  looses  his  embrace,  and  goes  to  the  rescued 
child. 

Above  the  jyrie-dieu  hangs  the  dumb  God  upon 
the  cross,  mute  and  sad. 

The  sunbeam  falls  upon  the  stooping  face  of  the 
dumb  God  and  on  the  upturned  forehead  of  the 
woman,  whose  hands  are  stretched  out  to  Him  in 
prayer.  .The  blood-drops  on  the  brow  of  the  divine 
image  glow  like  kingly  rubies,  and  the  tear-drops 
falling  from  the  woman's  eyes  shine  pure  as  orient 
pearls  in  the  beam  that  has  kindled  both. 

And  around  those  two  silent  fignres  the  dawn 
grows  slowly  brighter. 


NOTKE  DAME  DES  FLOTS. 


NOTRE  DAME  DES  FLOTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

To  the  west  of  the  seaport  town  of  Havre,  a  huge 
heap  of  eartli  rises  out  of  the  English  Channel.  This 
is  Cap  la  Heve.  Like  a  gloomy  side-scene  darken- 
ing tlie  lighted  stage  of  some  great  theatre,  it  juts 
out,  stretched  in  the  daytime  along  the  wide  gleam- 
ing sea,  and  in  the  evening  across  the  setting  sun. 
The  dark  outlines  of  a  church  pierce  the  bright 
clouds  above  the  promontory  ;  and  the  slender  spire 
of  the  church,  fine  and  sharp  as  a  needle,  is  distinct- 
ly visible,  not  only  from  Havre  itself,  and  the  Cote 
de  Grace,  whose  low  mountain-range  cuts  the  hori- 
zon bej'ond  the  estuary  of  the  Seine,  but  also  far  out 
at  sea. 

In  that  church  is  the  shrine  of  Our  Dear  Lady  of 
the  Waters,  the  patroness  of  ships  and  the  mariners, 
La  Dame  des  Flots. 

The  apse  behind  the  altar  of  the  little  church  has 
been  closed  in,  up  to  a  level  with  the  top  of  the  side- 
wall,  leaving  open  above  it  the  recess  of  the  pointed 
arch ;  through  which,  far  in  the  background,  and  al- 
most as  if  hovering  close  under  the  parti- colored 


164  NOTRE  DAME  DES  FLOTS. 

cross-beams  of  tlie  vault,  gleams  the  imago  of  Our 
Lady,  with  the  Infant  in  her  arms. 

Inaccessible  from  the  recess  of  the  choir,  unap- 
proachably receding  in  the  misty  spaces  of  that  lofty 
vault,  and  far  withdrawn  from  human  touch,  the 
lioly  effigy,  as  there  it  hangs  on  high,  awakens  an 
awful  veneration.  But  the  forehead  that  gleams  so 
pale  under  that  black  hair,  that  painfully  puckered 
mouth,  that  head  so  sorrowfully  bowed,  with  the  far- 
o£E  look  in  the  eyes  of  it,  that  seem  to  be  watching 
all  the  shipwrecks  on  all  the  oceans  of  the  world  — 
these  aspects  of  the  sublime  image  bring  it  down  in 
sympathy  so  close  to  each  sad  heart,  and  make  it 
seem  so  human,  that  one  fancies  one  must  have  some- 
where seen  that  face  before  among  the  restlessly 
wandering  and  secretly  suffering  race  of  men. 

"What  Pallas  Athene,  enthroned  on  the  Acropolis, 
once  was  to  the  Greek  sailor,  is  Our  Lady  of  the 
Waters  now  to  those  who  plough  the  seas — a  light 
far  shining  through  the  darkness  of  the  storm  and 
the  perils  of  the  deep. 

"  ;6toile  du  matin,  Notre  Dame  des  Flots, 
Tu  re^ois  tous  les  veux  des  pauvres  matelots. 
De  ton  temple  sacre,  vu  du  loia  sur  les  eaux, 
Delivre  du  peril,  et  marins  et  vaisseaux!"* 

This  prayer  is  inscribed  on  one  of  the  memorial 
tablets  which,  closely  crowded  together,  cover  the  sur- 
rounding walls.     Most  of  these  tablets  are  rcpre- 

*  Our  Lady  of  the  Waters!    Morning  star 
Of  us  poor  sbipmen !  from  thy  shrine  afar, 
Fair  o'er  the  rolling  waters  shine,  and  save  • 

The  shipman  and  his  ship  from  wind  and  wave! 


NOTRE   DAME   DES   FLOTS.  165 

sentations  of  ships  ;  from  great  three-masted  vessels, 
carved  in  ivorj,  to  little  fishing-smacks,  riidelj  drawn, 
but  sometimes  touching  in  the  artlessness  of  the  in- 
scription under  them.     As,  for  instance — 

"Petit  travail,  sans  aucun  talent,  d'un  mousse,  oflert  a,  Notre 
Dame  des  Flots,  par  reconnaissance." 

Or  pathetic  in  their  laconic  simplicity,  like  the  fol- 
lowing— 

"  J'ai  prie,  et  j'ai  ete  cxauce." 

And  thus  they  rise  one  above  the  other,  up  to  the 
vaulted  roof.  Here  and  there  among  them  is  the 
bridal -crown  of  some  fisherman's  wife,  offered  in 
homage  to  Our  Ladv.  And  thick  about  the  Guard- 
ian Image  leaned  the  last  props  of  the  poor  fisher- 
men, whole  bundles  of  crutches,  ripe  harvest-sheaves, 
which  Death  has  reaped. 

Among  these  votive  offerings  hangs  a  poor  wooden 
frame  with  a  glass  cover,  wherein  are  placed  two  long 
tresses  of  thickly  plaited  hair.  The  woman  to  whom 
they  once  belonged  must  have  bent  her  head  under 
the  burden  of  their  bright  abundance ;  and  M'hen  she 
loosed  and  combed  them  out,  they  must  have  covered 
her  whole  body  as  with  a  flowing  garment.  These 
tresses  have  the  color  of  ripe  corn  ;  and  if  a  sunbeam 
glides  across  them,  they  gleam  like  dead  gold.  Noth- 
ing else  is  in  the  little  casket.  The  wooden  frame 
bears  no  name,  nor  does  the  narrow  space  of  the  wall 
above  contain  any  inscription  or  dedication.  It  is  a 
toiichingly  shy  gift  to  Our  Dear  Lady — a  gift  silent 
and  faint-hearted,  yet  withal  so  splendid  that  a  queen 
could  not  have  offered  to  that  shrine  a  richer  tribute. 


166  NOTRE  DAME  DES  FLOTS. 

And  jiathctic  as  the  gift  is  the  story  of  it,  which 
by  those  -who  Avill  may  liere  be  read.  If  to  thee, 
reader,  it  seem  a  talc  too  i\u\  of  woe,  recall  whatever 
thine  own  heart  hath  suffered;  and  in  that  peace  of 
resignation  which  succeeds  to  griefs  outlived,  bethink 
thee  how  sorrow  helps  to  bind  together  the  whole 
human  race,  like  a  high  and  holy  doctrine  delivered 
unto  all.  But  if,  when  thus  thou  lookest  into  the 
depths  of  thy  heart,  what  thou  seest  there  is  only 
the  still,  clear  splendor  seen  by  the  fisherman  in  the 
deptlis  of  the  windless  waters  when  the  sea  is  calm, 
then  lay  aside  this  tale.  For  then,  to  myself  alone 
shall  I  have  told  it  now  again,  as  often  heretofore, 
when  I  stood  within  the  little  church  upon  the  windy 
cape,  looking  at  those  golden  tresses  through  the 
black  frame  of  their  wordless  casket,  and  listening  to 
the  lonjr  low  roar  of  the  waters  beneath. 


In  Normandy,  not  far  from  Louviers,  was  once  sit- 
uated a  small  country-seat  closely  secluded  from  the 
outer  W' orld.  The  park  was  bounded  on  one  side  by 
the  winding  waters  of  the  Eure,  and  on  the  other  by 
a  waving  line  of  low  mountains.  If,  turning  from 
the  banks  of  the  Eure,  you  followed  the  main  avenue 
of  the  park,  the  dark  foliage  of  its  tall  old  trees  grad- 
ually subsided  as  you  advanced  into  the  lighter  tints 
of  a  lower  and  more  scattered  woodland.  This  in 
turn  gave  way  to  graceful  groups  of  young  trees  and 
Bhrnbs,  and  finally  you  would  find  yourself  in  a  large 
old  flower-garden.  From  the  midst  of  the  flower- 
garden,  and  in  striking  contrast  to  the  gay  colors  of 


NOTRE  DAME  DES  FLOTS.  167 

the  ephemeral  blossoms  whose  breath  was  sweet  upon 
the  air  around  it,  rose  a  gloomy  remnant  of  past  ages 
— a  rigid  mass  of  ancient  stone,  gray  and  stern,  with 
steep  roofs  and  heavily  walled  towers. 

In  the  right  wing  of  this  building,  which  was  the 
only  inhabited  part  of  it,  lived  an  old  widowed  lady 
— by  name,  Madame  de  Mersay.  Iler  estate,  which 
she  managed  herself,  was  not  of  wide  extent.  Had 
she  ever  found  time,  in  the  restless  activity  of  her 
daily  occupations,  to  look  out  of  her  bay-window,  she 
might  with  those  keen  ej'es  of  hers  have  overlooked 
it  all.  To  the  right,  beyond  the  park  walls,  were  farm 
buildings  and  a  pasture-ground;  straight  in  front  a 
sweep  of  field  and  meadow,  stretching  to  the  foot  of 
the  low  mountain -range;  and  to  the  left,  the  last 
skirt  of  the  forest,  which  at  that  point  joined  the 
mountain-line. 

This  was  all  that  Monsieur  de  Mersay  had  left  to 
his  widow ;  and  it  was  exactly  as  much  as  he  himself 
had  inherited  from  his  father. 

A  stiff  Legitimist,  firmly  insisting  upon  the  hered- 
itary position  of  his  family,  he  stood  out  into  the 
latter  half  of  the  nineteenth  century,  like  his  own 
castle,  an  uncompromising  anachronism,  stern,  but 
venerable.  Acting  with  none  of  the  new  political 
parties,  circumstances  had  withdrawn  him  from  con- 
tact with  the  gentry  of  his  own  opinion ;  and  it  was 
only  now  and  then  that  he  ever  had  occasion  to  no- 
tice, with  a  wondering  shake  of  the  head,  how  these 
also  were  going  with  the  altered  current  of  the  time. 
That  was  when  he  chanced  to  look  at  a  newspaper 
(a  cliance  that  happened  rarely),  and  found  there  in 


168  NOTRE  DAME  DES  FLOTS. 

strange  company  tlie  proudest  names  of  the  anicen 
regime.  He  could  not  comprehend  what  induced 
the  owners  of  these  noble  names  to  allow  penny-a- 
liners  to  inform  all  sorts  of  persons,  whom  the  in- 
formation in  nowise  concerned,  that  they  had  given 
an  evening  party,  that  they  had  been  at  the  races,  or 
liad  gone  to  Baden-Baden,  or  had  appeared  in  the 
Bois  de  Boulogne  with  a  new  equipage.  lie  could 
not  understand  why,  instead  of  maintaining  their 
honor  with  the  point  of  their  swords,  they  stooped 
to  appear  before  the  public  tribunals  in  the  undigni- 
fied positions  of  plaintiffs  and  defendants;  nor  why, 
whenever  they  gave  alms,  an  act  so  natural,  and  so 
essentially  private,  should  be  announced  in  francs  and 
centimes  by  all  the  journals. 

If,  in  one  of  these  journals.  Monsieur  de  Mersay 
chanced  to  find  an  old  Legitimist  name  at  the  head 
of  an  industrial  enterprise,  he  blushed  crimson,  and 
tore  the  newspaper  deliberately  into  little  bits.  The 
world  in  which  such  things  were  possible  was  to  him 
an  unintelligible  world.  His  ideas  about  this  world 
he  had  learned  from  his  father,  and  his  ideas  about 
the  next  from  an  old  abbe.  That  was  the  sum  total 
of  his  knowledge  ;  and  all  that  it  had  taught  him  was 
to  preserve  the  escutcheon  of  his  house  unstained 
by  the  rank  breath  of  the  swarming  vulgarities  he 
shunned.  His  life  was  passed  in  retirement,  and  in 
doing  what  was  right  and  good — the  right  noiselessly, 
the  good  secretly. 

Thus  living  and  acting,  he  had  never  added  an  acre 
to  his  patrimony,  notwithstanding  his  incessant  ac- 
tivity. 


NOTKE  DAME  DES   FLOTS.  169 

Daily,  at  early  dawn,  the  old  gentleman's  giant  fig- 
ure might  be  seen  moving  across  the  misty  fields, 
mounted  on  his  gray  Norman  horse ;  and  wherever 
his  large  hawk-nose  appeared,  the  laborers  set  to  work 
with  tiie  utmost  ardor.  He  was  a  benevolent  mas- 
ter, for  he  understood  the  orders  he  gave,  and  could 
Iiimself  lend  a  hand  to  the  work  if  it  were  wanted. 
Moreover,  he  had  the  strength  of  two  strong  men, 
and  if  a  wheel  stuck  in  the  furrow  or  the  ditch,  he 
could  draw  it  out  with  one  jerk  of  his  powerful 
hand. 

Never  did  the  most  vehement  exertions  of  this 
sort  set  his  face  glowing  half  as  red  as  it  grew  on 
one  occasion,  when  Monsieur  Chauvel,  a  manufactur- 
er from  Louviers,  pointed  out  to  him  that,  although 
his  farm  was  situated  in  the  centre  of  the  most  flour- 
ishing industrial  districts,  he  was  making  nothing  of 
it,  in  spite  of  the  care  and  labor  he  devoted  to  it. 

Chauvel  proved  to  him,  by  an  array  of  unanswera- 
ble figures,  that  a  large  percentage  of  his  income  was 
annually  carried  to  waste  by  the  waters  of  the  Eure, 
and  how  their  motive  power  might  be  turned  to  bet- 
ter account  by  a  judicious  application  of  industrial 
capital.     To  which  the  old  gentleman  replied, 

"  You  and  I,  Monsieur  Chauvel,  can  no  more  do 
the  same  things  than  we  can  bear  the  same  name." 

Madame  de  Mersay  had  grown  up  among  the  same 
antiquated  views  and  traditions,  in  a  chateau  of  Brit- 
tany, even  lonelier  and  more  isolated  than  that  of  her 
husband. 

In  her  own  departments  of  daily  duty — the  house, 
the  poultry-yard,  the  orchard,  and  the  fruit-garden — 


170  NOTRE   DAME  DES  FLOTS. 

licr  activity  was  not  surpassed  by  liis.  The  only 
moment  when  she  sat  still  was  in  the  morning,  over 
her  chocolate.  It  was  then  that  she  planned  out  her 
day's  work ;  and  it  angnred  no  lucky  day  if  the 
spoon  with  the  crest  of  the  Mersays  did  not  stand 
upright  in  the  chocolate,  thickened  with  rice-flour. 
At  all  other  times  the  green  ribbons  of  the  old  lady's 
cap  were  to  be  seen  twinkling,  under  her  cheerful, 
kindly  face,  all  about  the  house  and  its  precincts, 
where  their  apparition  had  the  same  influence  on  the 
maid-servants  as  the  mighty  hawk-nose  of  her  hus- 
band on  the  men. 

When  Monsieur  de  Mersay  died,  of  a  fall  from  his 
horse, his  widow  redoubled  her  activity,  and  took  into 
lier  own  hands  the  principal  direction  of  the  farm, 
leaving  only  to  an  old  head-servant  of  the  property 
the  detailed  execution  of  her  instructions. 

All  was  as  before,  except  that  the  old  lady's  cap- 
ribbons  twinkled,  not  only  about  the  house,  but  also 
about  the  fields ;  and  that  they  no  longer  displaj^ed 
the  favorite  color  of  Monsieur  de  Mersay,  the  bright 
green  of  his  family  arms,  but  were  now  black — a  color 
which  they  never  changed  again.  It  was,  however, 
a  color  that  suited  her  face  much  better;  for  the 
face,  too,  had  lost  its  lively  hues  since  Mersay's  death. 
Her  dependants  scarcely  noticed  this  change  in  their 
daily  and  hourly  intercourse  with  her,  and  only  felt 
concerned  about  their  mistress  when  the  morning 
chocolate  remained  untasted,  even  though  the  spoon 
stood  upright  in  it.  Her  activity  was  never  relaxed, 
and  in  the  example  of  her  late  husband  was  the 
main-spring  that  kept  it  going. 


NOTRE   DAME  DES   FLOTS.  171 

That  example,  indeed,  she  followed  in  nil  thing?, 
with  unsellish  disregard  of  her  own  interests. 

Monsieur  Chauvel  came  from  Louviers  on  a  visit 
of  condolence  to  her;  lie  was  willing  to  buy  at  a  high 
price  the  property  which  her  Imsband  had  left  her. 

"Allow  me,  madam,"  said  he,  "in  consideration  of 
tliQ  friendly  relations  which  have  so  long  subsisted 
between  your  family  and  myself,  to  relieve  you  of  a 
burden  which  I  fear  3'ou  will  find  it  impossible  to 
support  under  conditions  that  would  severely  tax  all 
the  strength  and  energy  of  a  man.  Moreover,  yon 
are  so  happy  as  to  possess  in  Mademoiselle  de  Mer- 
say  a  daugliter  already  old  enough  to  take  her  natu- 
ral place  in  the  Grand  Monde,  where  her  personal 
attractions  cannot  fail  to  command  the  consideration 
to  which  she  is  entitled  by  her  birth  and  rank.  Par- 
don my  frankness.  Monsieur  de  Mersay  was  so 
good  as  to  honor  me  with  his  confidence  in  financial 
and  other  matters,  and  I  have  therefore  deemed  it  a 
sacred  obligation  to  speak  to  you  on  this  subject 
with  the  unreserve  of  an  old  man,  whose  white  hairs 
ma}',  I  trust,  sufficiently  excuse  the  freedom  of  his 
speech." 

"I  thank  you.  Monsieur  Chauvel,"  replied  the 
widow;  "but  pray  be  good  enough  to  tell  me,  with 
the  same  frankness,  whether  you  are  under  the  im- 
pression that  Monsieur  de  Mersay  would  have  sold 
his  estate,  merely  to  introduce  his  daugliter  into  the 
Grand  Monde?''' 

"  No,  madam,  I  cannot  say  that." 

"Then,  if  you  please,  we  will  not  speak  of  it  any 
more,  sir." 


172  NOTRE   DAME  DES   FLOTS, 

Madeiuoisellc  dc  Mcrsay,  tlie  subject  of  this  con- 
versation, was  fair,  slender,  and  delicate  as  the  serapli 
in  the  old  picture  of  the  Madonna  that  hung  above 
her  bed.  Kind-hearted  she  was,  as  the  sun,  to  every 
living  creature;  and  dreamy,  as  the  inoon,  at  which 
she  was  so  fond  of  gazing  with  her  large  blue  eyes 
— eyes  that  gleamed  under  clusters  of  bright  curls, 
like  two  little  bits  of  blue  heaven  peeping  through  a 
mass  of  golden  cloudlets. 

When  this  young  lady  wanders,  in  the  morning, 
about  the  flower-garden  of  the  old  chateau,  those 
golden  curls  hang  loosely  undulating  down  to  the 
skirt  of  her  dress,  like  waves  of  ripe  corn  rippled  by 
the  breeze ;  and  the  blue  eyes  glow  between  tlicm, 
like  large  corn-flowers  half  hidden  by  the  waving 
wheat.  She  stops  and  pauses  over  every  blossom 
which  has  opened  during  the  night,  as  if  putting  to 
it  some  question,  which  the  blossom  answers,  as  best 
it  can,  with  its  sweet  odor.  Above  her,  thousands  of 
little  leaves  are  whispering  on  the  trees;  beneath 
her,  tliousands  of  little  ripples  lisp  and  laugh  along 
the  river;  arpund  her, is  the  multitudinous  murmur 
of  the  morning  bees,  and  the  humming  of  tiny  wings 
that  sparkle  in  the  sun  ;  and  from  the  bushes  and 
the  hedges,  the  branches  and  the  ivied  eaves,  sweetly 
tremble  innumerable  bird-notes. 

When  she  pauses  here  and  there,  she  stands  in- 
tently listening  to  all  these  sounds,  and  trying  Jiard 
to  guess  what  they  are  saying  to  her.  But  she  can- 
not understand  it. 

Then  she  thinks  of  her  Uncle  Godefroy  ;  and  of  his 
sayings,  and  his  books ;  wherein  she  learned  how  un- 


NOTRE  DAME  DES   FLOTS.  173 

spcakably  large  the  world  is,  and  how  full  of  sounds, 
because  of  the  millions  of  human  beings  in  it,  laugh- 
ing and  weeping,  shouting  and  sobbing  —  and  she 
herself,  how  lost  in  the  midst  of  them  all,  not  under- 
standing any  of  their  sounds ! 

In  herself  all  is  so  still !  She  neither  laughs  nor 
weeps. 

And  all  at  once  this  thought  so  pains  her  that  it 
takes  away  her  breath ;  and  she  lays  her  hand  anx- 
iously upon  her  bosom. 

Tiiere — she  listens,  standing  quite  still — there,  she 
feels  something  beating,  distinct,  loud,  quick,  impetu- 
ous. Longer  and  longer  she  listens,  and  ponders. 
Then  she  begins  to  smile  softly.  She  has  found  it 
at  last — the  sound  which  she  also  has  within  her, 
like  all  else  around  her,  and  the  wide  world  itself. 
A  poor,  monotonous  sound  only,  but  it  pleases  lier. 

She  has  still,  however,  to  discover  what  it  means, 
and  long  she  presses  her  hand  against  her  heart.  But 
she  cannot  make  it  out. 

The  meaning  escapes  her,  like  that  of  all  the  other 
sounds.  "Within  her,  as  without,  look  and  listen  as 
she  niay,  the  only  answer  returned  to  her  question 
is  the  echo  of  the  question  itself.  But  within  her 
there  is  something  which  she  cannot  tell  in  words. 
It  is  like  a  shoreless  sea ;  and  floating  up  from  the 
deeps  of  it  come  blossoming  islands  with  strange 
flowers,  such  as  she  has  never  seen  before,  and  forms 
that  have  no  likeness  upon  earth,  and  melodies  won- 
drous sweet. 

Often,  sitting  alone  in  her  own  little  room,  she 
has  sought  to  iix  these  images,  not  in  words,  but  in 


174  NOTRE  DAME  DES  FLOTS. 

lines  and  colors;  but  ever  they  floated  softly  away, 
and  her  finfjers  could  not  follow  their  fadini;  out- 
lines,  nor  her  pencil  find  any  color  as  warm  and 
bright  and  vivid  as  theirs.  And  many  an  evening, 
alone  in  the  ivy-arbor,  she  has  tried  timidly  to  sing 
those  strange  melodies;  but  they  also  changed  in  the 
song  that  glided  from  her  Yips,  and  were  no  longer 
the  same. 

It  is  evening;  and  a  little  bird  has  begun  to  sing 
in  the  rose-bush  beside  the  arbor.  The  bird  sings  all 
alone.  Everything  is  suddenly  silent.  The  other 
birds,  the  rustling  of  the  leaves,  the  murmuring  of 
the  waters — all  the  unintelligible  sounds,  the  incom- 
prehensible harmonies,  without  her  as  within — are 
liushed  around  that  little  bird.  Is  it,  she  wonders, 
that  they  all  are  listening  to  his  song,  or  that  he 
sings  so  loud  no  other  voice  is  audible? 

Yes,  that  is  the  nightingale  !  How  sweet,  and  yet 
withal  how  woful,  is  his  song — sobs  and  exultations, 
pangs  and  raptures,  lamentations  and  delights,  all  to- 
gether 1 

Meanwhile,  the  moon  swims  slowly  up  into  the 
sty,  across  the  dark  tree-tops ;  and  far  awaj'  the  land 
glimmers  in  a  bluish  light,,  like  a  still,  soft,  bound- 
less sea,  wherefrom  emerge  dim  images,  dubious  and 
full  of  mystery. 

And  she  listens,  and  looks,  and  dreams.  Then 
she  goes  slowly  home,  and  kneeling  before  the  pict- 
ure of  the  Madonna,  dreams  of  Heaven.  At  last, 
nothing  is  awake  in  the  little  room  but  the  moon, 
whose  rays  glide  softly  across  the  floor  to  the  feet 
of  the  slumbering  maiden.     But  around  the  maid- 


NOTRE   DAME   DES   FLOTS.  175 

en's  head  hover  lieavenly  visions,  that  graciously 
ininjrle  with  the  dreams  of  earth  and  of  her  own 
beating  heart. 

Blanche  de  Mersay  had  neither  brother  nor  sister, 
nor  playfellow  of  any  sort.  The  neighboring  town 
of  Louviers  was  only  visited  for  Divine  Service  on 
special  hol^'days;  and  there,  also,  she  Iiad  no  inti- 
mate acquaintances.  How  pleasant  the  town  looked, 
though,  with  its  many  gardens  lying  fair  in  the  riv- 
er-valley of  the  Eure !  Its  factories  were  partially 
hidden  behind  high  green  trees ;  buildings  of  great 
antiquity  surmounted  the  little  new  houses  of  its 
manufacturing  population,  and  the  venerable  Gothic 
cathedral  towered  high  above  a  range  of  chimneys. 

The  priest  of  the  neighboring  village  taught 
Blanche  all  that  he  himself  had  learned  in  his 
youth ;  or,  at  least,  so  much  of  it  as  he  had  not 
forgotten  in  the  after -years  of  his  long  life.  She 
asked  him  at  first  much  more  than  he  could  an- 
swer, and  many  things  which  he  had  never  even 
thought  of  before.  The  good  man  went  home  in  a 
more  and  more  meditative  mood  each  time  he  came 
to  the  chateau. 

Monsieur  de  Mersay  would  sometimes  shake  his 
head,  and  knit  his  bushy  eyebrows  above  his  hawk- 
nose,  while  listening  to  the  chatter  of  his  child.  He 
took  her  on  Iiis  knee,  and  passed  his  hand  over  her 
forehead,  as  if  to  wipe  away  something.  The  child 
felt,  sensibly  enough,  the  roughness  of  that  hard,  la- 
borious old  hand ;  but  the  hand  was  not  sensible  of 
what  was  behind  the  fine  white  wall  it  brushed  so 
hard. 


176  NOTRE  DAME  DES  FLOTS. 

For  Madame  do  Mersay,  a  rose  ^vas  always  a  rose, 
and  notliing  but  a  rose.  Its  odor  could  suggest  to 
her  no  idea  of  anything  else.  To  her  eyes,  the  lily 
was  tlie  only  flower  that  signified  something;  for  it 
belonged  to  the  arms  of  the  De  Mersay  family. 
Neither  of  the  child's  parents  understood  her ;  and 
knowing  no  name  for  something  in  her  which  was 
not  in  themselves,  they  said, 

"  Blanche  has  taken  after  Godefroy." 

Godefroy  was  the  name  of  Monsieur  de  Mcrsay's 
younger  brother.  lie  had  once  wandered  far  away 
over  the  world,  because  his  home  had  become  too  nar- 
row for  him  ;  and  he  returned,  years  afterwards,  be- 
cause the  world  had  become  too  wide  for  him.  "Weary 
and  broken-hearted,  he  came  home  only  to  die  there, 
slowly;  as  the  stricken  deer  trails  itself  with  limp- 
ing foot  out  of  the  ]\(A\t  into  the  dark  thicket. 

Like  Blanche,  he,  too,  used  often  to  pause  sudden- 
ly, and  linger  long,  as  he  wandered  about  the  little 
garden  of  the  old  chateau,  listening  to  some  distant 
sound,  or  poring  over  some  folded  blossom,  as  if  his 
gaze  would  burst  it  open ;  or  he  would  stand  for 
long  hours  together  on  the  banks  of  the  Euro,  gazing 
at  the  fleeting  current,  or  watching  the  slow  rising 
of  the  moon. 

In  the  house  he  was  habitually  silent,  and  spoke 
only  when  alone  with  Blanche.  She  did  not  quite 
understand  his  talk,  but  she  liked  to  listen  to  it,  be- 
cause his  voice  sounded  so  gentle  and  kind  ;  and 
when  he  passed  his  hand  over  her  hair  and  brow,  it 
was  not  as  when  her  father  did  it.  The  uncle's  hand 
was  so  soft  and  tender,  that  its  touch  always  sent  a 


NOTEE  DAME  DES   FLOTS.  177 

faint  thrill  through  her.  At  other  times  he  would 
sit  bending  over  one  or  other  of  the  many  books  he 
had  brought  home  with  him,  and  thrusting  back, 
from  time  to  time,  with  wasted  fingers,  his  long 
black  hair  that  drooped  over  the  page.  Blanche  sat 
beside  him,  and  noticed  that,  when  tiius  thrust  back- 
ward from  his  temples,  the  roots  of  the  long  black 
liair  were  snowy-white.  Sometimes  she  noticed  also 
that  he  could  smile  ;  but  it  was  only  when  he  coughed 
and  put  his  hand  convulsively  to  his  chest. 

He  showed  her  the  pictures  painted  in  his  books ; 
they  were  bright  with  gold  and  rich  colors.  By-and- 
by  he  taught  her  to  read  the  books,  which  were  writ- 
ten in  an  old  tongue,  spoken  ages  ago  in  Trance ; 
and  she  read  in  them  of  kings,  and  knights,  and  no- 
ble dames,  and  charcoal-burners,  and  valorous  deeds, 
and  wicked  witchcraft.  When  her  uncle  rose  from 
his  books,  tossed  back  his  long  black  hair,  and  stood 
gazing  out  of  the  window  at  the  wan,  rolling  clouds, 
she  thought  he  was  himself  like  one  of  the  knights 
in  those  old  books,  who  had  gone  forth  in  search  of 
distant  adventures,  and  come  liome  mortally  wound- 
ed. x\nd  she  liked  him  all  the  better  for  it.  She 
could  not  yet  understand  how  much  she  loved  him. 

One  evening  Uncle  Godefroy  died,  with  his  hand 
on  his  breast,  and  a  smile  on  his  lips. 

But  Godefroy's  knights  continued  to  live  on  in 
lier  soul — fair  and  dauntless,  as  they  rode  forth  in 
the  mornins:  twilight,  with  their  waving  locks  under 
their  plumed  helmets,  and  their  glowing  hearts  un- 
der their  white  armor,  to  conquer  the  heathen,  and 
slay  the  dragon,  and  free  noble  ladies  from  wicked 
12 


178  NOTRE  DAME  DES   FLOTS. 

spells.  And,  because  she  had  no  other  companion, 
she  related  all  their  glorious  exploits  to  her  dog 
Lyon. 

Uncle  Godefroy  had  bequeathed  to  her  this  dog, 
which  he  had  once  saved  from  being  drowne'd. 

Lyon  was  a  big,  rough,  shepherd's  dog,  and  not  at 
all  pretty;  but  he  had  such  true  eyes!  with  which 
lie  looked  up  at  her,  never  moving,  while  she  sat  un- 
der a  tree  in  the  park  and  told  him  all  tlie  wonders 
of  the  olden  time.  AVhen  she  stopped  talking  to 
liim,  having  come  to  the  end  of  her  tale,  he  lifted  up 
his  paw  and  softly  touched  her  knee  with  it.  By 
this  gesture  Lyon  implied  that  she  might  go  on 
speaking — he  was  all  attention.  But  for  the  present 
she  had  no  more  to  say,  having  told  him  all  she 
knew.  So  many  a  time  would  she  steal  away  into 
the  corridor,  where  the  pictures  of  her  ancestors 
liung  along  the  walls,  and  thoughtfully  study  those 
pictures  till  she  had  invented  a  story  for  every 
knight,  adding  every  day  some  new  adventure  to  his 
strange  quest ;  or  else  she  fetched  one  of  her  late 
uncle's  books  which  she  had  not  yet  read,  and  sat 
with  it,  as  still  as  a  little  mouse,  in  any  corner  of  the 
old  chateau  where  nobody  was  likely  to  interrupt  her. 

In  this  way  she  always  found  new  matter  for 
Lyon's  instruction.  But  she  was  sorry  that  the  old 
knights  were  now  nowhere  to  be  seen,  except  in 
their  pictures.  She  would  have  liked  to  be  tor- 
mented by  an  old  magician,  that  some  brave  young 
knight  might  come  and  deliver  her  just  in  time  to 
save  her  life.  They  had  quite  disappeared,  however, 
these  knights  of  old.    Blanche  had  found  that  out, 


NOTRE  DAME  DES  FLOTS.  179 

when  slie  went  with  her  parents  to  Lonvicrs,  and 
saw^thc  gentry  there  entering  the  church. 

Even  the  people  of  quality,  even  the  rich  manu- 
facturers— they  were  none  of  theni  knights-errant, 
nor  did  they  look  at  all  knightl3\  It  was  not  the 
coat,  nor  the  high  black  hat  which  everybody  held 
in  his  hand — she  could  not  tell  what  it  was,  but  she 
felt  it  distinctly,  that  none  of  them  would  go  forth 
in  search  of  noble  adventures. 

Yet,  the  world  is  so  large  —  somewhere  about  it, 
she  thought,  such  men  must  still  be  living;  and 
among  them,  perhaps,  one  who  would  undertake 
great  things  for  her  sake.  She  knew  exactly  how 
he  looked,  that  one  in  a  thousand.  She  had  de- 
scribed him  in  every  detail  to  Lyon,  so  that  her 
faithful  dog  should  not  bark  at  him  when  he  came. 
Lyon  would  not  have  done  that,  however,  for,  from 
lier  description  of  him,  the  knight  must  have  looked 
exactly  like  Lyon's  beloved  benefactor  and  late  mas- 
ter, Godefroy  de  Mersay. 

She  liked  also  to  look  over  the  garden  wall,  now 
and  then,  and  listen,  where  along  the  woodland 
might  she  not,  some  day,  hear  the  neigh  of  a  pranc- 
ing steed  approaching  the  chateau  ?  or  from  the  out- 
skirts of  the  park  to  watch  if,  down  the  winding  wa- 
ters of  the  Euro,  there  came  no  mystic  bark  with  a 
purple  banderole  and  a  golden  prow. 

And  so  the  years  went  by,  and  the  child  became  a 
young  woman. 

But  still  her  lonely  path  was  through  the  dream- 
land of  her  maiden  fancies,  wherein  she  had  created 
for  herself  a  world  of  her  own,  a  world  known  only 


180  NOTRE  DAME   DES  FLOTS. 

to  herself.  And  with  all  the  scenes  and  images  of 
that  strange  world  the  tender  brightness  of  her  own 
fair  soul  was  interwoven,  like  the  silver  clew  that 
winds  among  the  glowing  depths  of  a  fairy  laby- 
rinth. 

The  lingering  winter  imperceptibly  subsided  into 
the  spring.  The  first  rose-bud  had  burst  open  on 
the  bush,  and  the  nightingale  began  to  sing,  where 
between  the  branches  of  the  trees  the  moon  was 
peeping. 

Blanche  sat  in  the  arbor  and  listened,  motionless, 
to  the  bird. 

She  thought  of  the  king's  daughter  who  was 
changed,  by  a  lame  old  witch,  into  a  flower.  But 
soft-hearted  little  wood -goblins  crept  out  of  the 
mosses,  and  clambered  down  from  every  rifted  tree 
to  comfort  the  king's  daughter.  And  some  of  them 
played  to  her  sweet  tunes  on  blades  of  trembling 
grass  till  their  puffed  cheeks  were  glowing,  and  their 
little  hearts  nearly  bursting  with  the  effort,  while 
others  danced  round  her  in  graceful  circles.  So  the 
goblin  dance  and  minstrelsy  went  on,  till  the  prince 
came  riding  through  the  forest;  and,  lured  nearer 
and  nearer  by  the  sweet  sounds  that  hovered  round 
it,  beheld  the  enchanted  flower;  and  plucked  it,  and 
breathed  it  open  with  his  warm  breath,  and  touched 
it  with  his  lips;  and  the  spell  was  broken. 

And  Blanche  thought  that  the  enchanted  flower 
must  have  been  just  like  the  rose  upon  the  bush  be- 
side her. 

For  the  little  bird  never  left  that  flower,  but  sung 
to  it,  like  the  goblin  minstrels  in  the  fairy  tale,  so 


NOTRE  DAME  DES  FLOTS.  181 

sweetly  and  sadlj,  that  it  seemed  as  if  his  little  heart 
must  burst  with  the  fulness  of  its  emotion. 

But  how,  she  thought,  did  the  other  wood-sprites 
dance  round  the  enchanted  flower? 

And  softly  she  rose  on  tiptoe,  and  began  to  dance 
in  the  moonlight  round  the  rose-bush,  to  the  music 
of  the  nio:htin2;ale. 

The  moonlight  illuminated  all  her  fairy  figure, 
flowed  from  her  glittering  tresses  to  her  twinkling 
feet,  and  spread  a  silver  carpet  on  the  grass  they 
tripped.  And  elfin  as  the  image  was  the  movement 
of  the  dancing  girl ;  a  soft,  unearthly  wavering  of 
the  flower-like  form  ;  from  throat  to  ankle  a  boun- 
teous pulsation  of  the  slender,  supple  limbs;  a  mys- 
terious budding  and  blossoming  of  beautiful  emo- 
tions, revealed  only  to  the  dreamy  light  that  never 
shone  by  da}'. 

Suddenly  the  nightingale  stopped  his  jubilant 
song,  and  was  silent. 

Blanche  also  stopped  her  dance,  and  looked  at  the 
rose-bush,  watching  for  the  bird  to  begin  again.  But 
he  did  not  begin  again ;  and  leaning  over  the  gate, 
and  looking  at  her,  stood  the  figure  of  a  man. 

Blushing  from  head  to  foot,  she  plunged  into  the 
shadow  of  the  trees,  and  hastened  back  to  the  house. 
There,  safe  in  her  own  little  room,  she  stood,  press- 
ing both  her  hands  against  the  loud  beating  of  her 
heart,  and  wondered  whether  it  was  the  prince,  who 
had  come  to  deliver  the  rose,  or  only  some  inquis- 
itive mortal. 

The  night  was  late  before  she  fell  asleep,  and  then 
she  dreamed  that  she  herself  was  the  enchanted  rose. 


182  NOTBE  DAME  DES   FLOTS. 

Bnt  it  was  not  the  Fairy  Prince  tliat  she  had  seen; 
it  was  only  Arthur  do  Mersay,  Godefroy's  son,  who 
came  next  day  to  visit  his  aunt. 

Tlie  aunt  and  nephew  had  never  met  before,  and 
they  knew  each  other  only  by  name. 

Wlien  his  father  died,  Arthur  was  beyond  the  At- 
lantic. The  first  news  of  his  loss  reached  him  only 
when  he  landed  at  Havre,  on  his  return  to  France ; 
and  lie  had  arrived  in  Louviers  the  night  before  this 
visit  to  the  chateau.  Thinking  it  too  late  to  drive 
over  to  his  aunt's  that  night,  he  had  strolled  out  of 
the  town  on  foot,  with  that  longing  to  stretch  one's 
legs  which  is  familiar  to  all  who  have  just  landed 
from  a  long  sea  voyage. 

The  garden  to  which  his  steps  had  rambled  along 
the  banks  of  the  Euro  was  unknown  to  him  ;  he  had 
no  idea  that  the  girl  he  saw  dancing  in  the  moon- 
light was  his  own  cousin ;  and  it  was  with  a  pleased 
surprise  that  he  learned  the  name  of  the  cliateau, 
when  the  next  morning  it  was  pointed  out  to  him 
as  the  seat  of  Madame  de  Mersay. 

The  moonlight  fairy  had  been  dancing  all  night 
in  his  head ;  and  such  was  his  longing  to  see  her 
again  in  broad  daylight,  that  he  would  certainly  have 
returned  to  the  little  garden  gate,  even  had  it  not 
led  to  his  aunt's  house,  and  have  opened  it,  even  if 
it  had  been  the  postern  of  a  nunner}'. 

Arthur  de  Mersay  was  not  the  man  to  let  any  hin- 
derance  stand  between  him  and  his  desires.  He  rec- 
ognized the  little  gate  as  he  passed  through  it  this 
morning;  and  the  rose-bush,  too,  where  the  nightin- 
gale had  sung. 


NOTRE   DAME  DES   FLOTS,  183 

From  the  rose-bush,  as  he  went  by  it,  he  phiclced 
a  rose,  inhaled  for  a  moment  the  sweetness  of  the 
flower,  and  then  flung  it  away. 

Blanche,  who  was  sitting  in  the  arbor,  sprung  up, 
frightened  and  vexed. 

Why,  if  he  wished  to  enjoy  the  sweetness  of  the 
rose,  could  he  not  stoop  his  head  to  the  poor  flower, 
and  leave  it  to  bloom  uninjured  on  its  stem?  She 
would  take  the  stranger  to  task  for  this  ungentle 
act,  and  ask  him  by  whose  authority  he  was  entitled 
to  rob  the  nightingale  of  what  belonged  to  it — the 
first  rose  of  spring. 

But  now  he  stood  before  her,  and  she  did  not  ask 
him. 

The  question  was  needless.  The  stranger's  author- 
ity was  distinctly  certilicated  on  his  forehead,  when, 
as  he  took  off  his  hat  to  salute  her,  the  deep  sabre- 
scar  on  his  temples  became  visible,  just  under  the 
roots  of  his  black  waving  hair.  By  other  signs,  more- 
over, the  question  was  ah-eady  answered.  Blanche, 
with  a  thrill  of  inward  awe,  recognized  in  this 
stranger  a  being  from  higher  worlds.  His  was,  in 
all  particulars,  the  image  of  the  fairy  prince  —  the 
long-dreamed-of  knight  from  afar  —  v,'ho,  from  her 
childhood  till  this  hour,  liad  haunted  her  thoughts, 
waking  and  sleeping.  Even  to  the  minutest  de- 
tails, the  counterpart  was  complete,  as  he  tossed 
back  his  long  black  locks  with  a  proud  impatience; 
just  like  the  hero  of  the  tales  she  had  so  often  told 
to  Lyon,  and  prophetically  interpreted  to  herself, 
as  he  used  to  appear  when  the  visionary  combat  for 
her  life  was  about  to  bc^in.    And  the  motion  of 


184  NOTRE  DAME   DES  FLOTS. 

his  hand  seemed  to  Blanche  exactly  like  that  of  her 
uncle. 

The  knight  of  her  dreams  liad  come  to  life;  and, 
with  a  graceful  salutation,  lie  informed  her  that  he 
was  the  son  of  Godefroy  de  Mersay  ! 

Confused,  she  gave  him  her  hand,  and  said, 

"I  am  Godefroy's  niece  Blanche." 

"I  must  needs  helieve  it,"  he  replied,  retaining 
her  hand  in  his,  "since  you  tell  me  so." 

She  looked  at  him,  puzzled. 

"I  saw  last  night,"  he  continued,  smiling,  "upon 
the  very  spot  where  you  now  stand,  a  form  unearth- 
ly fair,  a  form  of  such  ravishing  beauty  as,  till  then, 
I  had  nowhere  seen,  and  only  once  heard  of — in 
Germany,  the  land  of  legends.  There,  I  once  heard 
a  legend  of  a  fairy  who  dances  in  the  moonlight,  en- 
chanting all  who  have  the  chance  to  see  her.  But, 
soon  as  seen,  she  glides  away  from  the  beholder, 
leaving  him  nothing  but  a  wounded  heart,  which 
can  never  again  be  healed.  I  then  thought  it  only 
a  pretty  fairy  tale;  but  since  yesterday  I  know  it  is 
a  trnth !" 

Blanche,  as  she  freed  her  imprisoned  hand  from 
the  young  man's  clasp,  felt  the  blood  rushing  to  her 
cheeks,  and  would  have  liked  to  run  to  her  room  as 
she  had  done  the  night  before. 

But  across  the  entrance  of  the  arbor  Lyon  was  ly- 
ing at  full  length,  upon  the  grass.  He  did  not  bark ; 
but  he  had  nuzzled  his  head  low  between  his  out- 
stretched forepaws,  and  was  meditatively  contemplat- 
ing the  stranger. 

"  I  will  lead  you  to  my  mother,"  she  said,  hurriedly. 


NOTRE  DAME   DE3   FLOTS.  185 

Slic  liad  fortunately  seen  the  black  cap-ribbons  flut- 
tering in  the  kitchen  garden. 

Madame  de  Mersay  was  walking  slowly  between 
the  beds,  and  examining  tiie  young  plants,  which 
stretched  forth  their  little  heads,  prudently  testing 
the  spring  air.  She  looked  up  surprised  as  the  stran- 
ger approached  accompanied  by  her  daughter.  But 
lier  surprise  changed  at  once  to  enthusiastic  welcome 
v.'hen  he  told  her  his  name. 

He  was  a  Do  Mersay,  and  that  was  enough  for 
her. 

Before  he  could  &i\y  another  word,  she  sounded  a 
little  silver  whistle  that  hung  from  her  neck,  and  or- 
dered an  old  white-headed  servant  who  presently  an- 
swered its  summons  to  see  that  her  nephew's  lug- 
gage was  promptly  fetched  from  Louviers,  as  also  to 
prepare  for  him  the  chief  guest-chamber ;  to  which, 
when  they  had  re-entered  the  house,  she  finally  con- 
ducted that  young  gentleman  herself — "for  a  good 
long  stay !"  said  the  old  lady,  cordially,  as  there  she 
left  hinj,  after  casting  a  housewifely  glance  around 
the  room  to  assure  herself  that  it  was  all  in  order. 

As  soon  as  the  young  man  found  himself  alone, 
he  began  to  pace  restlessly  up  and  down  his  sitting- 
room.  But  he  looked  at  none  of  the  things  around 
liim  there,  and  did  not  even  notice  the  fresh  nosegay 
of  spring  flowers  which  had  been  placed  upon  his 
table.  His  gaze,  as  if  eagerly  bent  on  some  distant 
object,  was  fixed  straight  before  him. 

This  far-off  look  was  habitual  to  Arthur  de  Mer- 
say. It  was  the  key  to  his  character.  He  had  ever 
before  his  eyes  some  distant  object,  ardently  desired  ; 


186  NOTRE   DAME   DES  FLOTS. 

and  in  the  excitement  of  its  pursuit  all  that  stood 
between  that  object  and  himself  was  completely  ob- 
literated from  his  perception. 

His  character  was  capable  of  only  one  passion  ; 
but  that  passion  was  intense,  all-pervading,  and  irre- 
pressible. It  was  the  passion  of  acquisition.  This 
passion  was  the  main-spring  of  all  his  feelings  and 
actions.  Deprived  of  its  animating  force,  the  whole 
man  would  have  fallen  to  pieces  as  an  earthen  image 
that  is  crumbled  into  atoms  by  the  displacement  of 
its  centre  of  gravity.  And,  for  that  reason,  the  thing 
acquired  had  no  lasting  value  for  him.  lie  threw 
it  aside  as  carelessly  as  he  had  thrown  away  the  rose 
that  morning.  The  prize  once  possessed,  all  delight 
in  it  was  gone,  and  already  in  the  distance  hovered 
some  new  attraction. 

As  for  the  goodness  or  reasonableness  of  the 
means  employed  for  its  attainment,  he  gave  to  the 
future  no  more  thought  than  he  vouchsafed  to  the 
past  concerning  the  worth  of  what  he  had  gained 
and  then  forsaken.  Ills  passion  urged  him  forward 
with  an  egotism  as  blind,  senseless,  and  unfeeling  as 
the  mechanical  impulsion  with  which  a  billiard-ball 
thrusts  the  other  balls  aside,  and,  after  hitting  the 
mark,  recoils  from  it — always  polished,  shining,  elas- 
tic, nimble,  and  always  hard — hard  as  a  stone ! 

Never  anywhere  had  he  yet  found  rest  in  life. 
The  unappeasable  craving  of  his  disposition  had 
driven  him,  always  with  the  same  yearning  for  some- 
thing afar,  from  the  soon-exhausted  excitements  of 
Paris,  first  as  a  soldier  to  Algeria,  and  then  as  a  trav- 
eller over  all  the  world. 


NOTRE  DAME   DES  FLOTS.  187 

And  so,  for  years,  lie  had  roamed  from  land  to 
land — a  restless,  indefinite  volition — not,  however, 
like  the  wind,  which  impels  the  ship  and  tnrns  the 
mill,  or  fans  the  forge  and  heats  the  iron  in  the  stithy 
— still  less  as  the  light  breeze,  that  caresses  the  petals 
of  the  roses,  and  plays  with  the  loosened  locks  of 
laughing  maidens;  bnt  rather  as  one  of  those  ele- 
mentary gases  which,  in  the  blind  conflict  of  natu- 
ral forces,  rushes  into  sudden  combination  with  the 
atoms  of  another;  and  then,  whirled  away  by  some 
new  attraction,  violently  dissolves  the  evanescent 
bond. 

In  this  way  he  had  squandered  his  youth,  his  best 
energies,  and  the  considerable  fortune  he  inher- 
ited from  his  mother,  without  winning  from  the 
waste  of  all  those  treasures  a  moment  of  genuine 
happiness,  or  even  of  partial  contentment.  In  the 
attainment  of  his  ever- shifting  aim  he  had  never 
failed ;  but  in  this  sterile  monotony  of  success  he 
felt  no  more  satisfaction  than  a  man  who  is  a  prac- 
tised marksman  might  feel  in  always  hitting  the 
bull's-eye,  which  he  knows  he  cannot  miss. 

And  from  all  these  successes,  such  as  they  were, 
his  only  lasting  acquirement  was  a  dull  weariness  of 
the  world,  and  a  disgust  of  his  own  existence — some- 
times so  intolerable,  that  his  hand  involuntarily  lifted 
his  revolver  to  his  head ;  only,  in  the  very  moment 
of  lifting  it,  his  aim  had  changed  again  ;  and  again, 
just  as  involuntarily,  he  had  followed  the  new  aim, 
with  always  the  old  result — desire  ever  insatiable, 
and  possession  never  enjoyed. 

Now,  as  he  paced  the  floor  of  his  apartment  in 


188  NOTRE  DAME  DES   FLOTS. 

the  Chateau  de  Mersnj,  liis  face  assumed  its  old 
eager  expression,  and  the  far-off  look  grew  more  and 
more  intensely  fixed  in  the  keen,  hungry  eyes.  For 
there,  on  the  horizon  of  his  fancy,  was  still  dancing 
the  moonlit  Fairy ;  and  to  her  exquisite  image  liis 
soul  went  forth,  in  all  the  sudden  intensity  of  its  in- 
veterate passion,  and  with  all  its  consuming  impa- 
tience of  time  and  means. 

While  Arthur  de  Mersay  was  thus  employed, 
Blanche  had  gone  quietly  back  to  the  rose-bush  by 
the  ivy-arbor. 

She  stooped  and  picked  up  the  enchanted  rose, 
which  she  found  there,  lying  in  the  sand.  Then 
she  shook  it  carefull}',  and  softly  blew  the  dust  from 
its  petals,  and  carried  it  stealthily  to  her  own  little 
room.  There,  she  put  the  flower  into  a  glass  of 
■water  which  stood  upon  her  table,  and  sat  down  be- 
fore it.  And  thus  for  hours  she  sat  alone,  her  elbow 
on  the  table,  her  cheek  propped  upon  her  hand,  mus- 
ingly watching  the  poor  little  wounded  blossom ; 
which,  refreslied  by  the  bath  she  had  given  it,  seemed 
to  revive  gradually  beneath  her  gaze. 

Meanwhile,  as  softly  came  and  went  the  sweet 
days  of  May,  every  morning  in  that  old  garden  the 
young  couple  went  wandering  side  by  side,  closer 
and  closer  daily,  as  their  hearts  drew  nearer  together 
— one  with  impetuous  desire,  the  other  shyly  and 
dreamily,  through  a  sunny  mist  of  golden  fancies. 

Blanche  now  saw  breathing  alive  before  her  the 
phantom  image  which  had  so  often  baffled  the  effort 
of  her  pencil  to  fix  its  fleeting  outlines.  To  individ- 
ualize her  maiden  fancies,  she  need  only  steal  a  tini- 


NOTKE  DAME  DES  FLOTS.  189 

id  glance  at  her  cousin  Arthur,  as  he  stood  there, 
tall  and  strong,  the  black  locks  lianging  about  his 
pale,  finely  moulded  face;  and,  across  his  forehead, 
the  scar,  which  sometimes  reddened  while,  with  that 
steadfast,  eager  gaze  of  his,  he  told  her  all  about  his 
combats  with  the  Kabjles,  or  his  adventures  in  all 
sorts  of  distant  lands  and  seas. 

Nor  was  it  only  the  longed-for  outlines  that  she 
liad  found  at  last ;  but,  therewith,  all  the  magic  hues, 
all  the  starry  splendors  of  that  glowing  treasure 
which  till  then  she  had  only  seen  shining  far  out  of 
reach,  like  a  sunken  ai-gosy,  in  the  hushed  depths  of 
her  own  day-dreams. 

All  this,  she  thought,  belonged  to  Arthur.  She 
knew  not,  in  the  toucliing  and  beautiful  simplicity 
of  her  heart,  that  she  herself  had  fetched  it,  piece  by 
piece,  from  the  fairy  riches  of  her  own  soul,  and  un- 
consciously clothed  him  in  the  glory  of  it.  With  all 
the  innocence,  the  softness,  and  the  warmth  of  her 
nature — all  the  generosity  and  greatness  of  her  soul 
— she  had  inv^ested  him,  as  with  a  splendid  garment. 
And,  like  precious  gems  on  the  broidered  mantle  of 
some  royal  saint,  into  that  splendid  garment  her 
adoring  hands  had  woven  all  the  sweet  and  holy  vi- 
sions of  her  youth. 

When,  at  night,  she  returned  to  her  little  room, 
and  knelt  at  her  bedside,  with  folded  hands,  before 
the  old  picture  of  the  Madonna  with  the  Seraph,  her 
eyes  now  beheld  there,  instead  of  the  sacred  image 
to  which  the  prayers  of  her  childhood  had  been  ad- 
dressed, only  the  glowing  image  of  Arthur ;  from 
which  her  gaze  sunk  dazzled  and  abashed  by  the  ra- 


190  NOTKE   DAME  DES  FLOTS. 

(tiance  that  trctiiblcd  down  from  it  through  all  her 
frame. 

She  was  incapable  of  perceiving  that  it  was  tlie 
celestial  glory  of  the  love  in  her  own  heart  which 
shed  this  lialo  around  the  form  she  had  unconscious- 
ly created,  out  of  the  depths  of  its  unfatliomable 
tenderness,  in  tiie  image  of  its  immaculate  ideal. 
She  only  sunk  lower  on  her  knees,  till  her  young 
head  almost  touched  the  ground,  as  she  murmured 
meekly  and  brokenly, 

"  It  is  thou  whom  I  adore  !" 

In  Arthur,  on  the  other  hand,  his  longing  for  the 
moonlit  Fairy  grew  more  and  more  overpowering, 
till  it  absorbed  his  thoughts,  and  stifled  every  other 
wish  in  the  heart  it  filled  to  bursting. 

The  looks  he  fixed  on  Blanche,  with  all  the  hun- 
gry eagerness  of  his  nature,  were  so  imperious  in  their 
usurpation  of  her  will  that  the  girl  was  constrained 
to  lift  her  eyelids,  trembling  and  blushing  from  head 
to  foot,  and  suffer  those  despotic  looks  to  flow  unre- 
sisted into  her  eyes  and  soul.  And,  believing  that 
the  Realm  of  the  Beautiful  and  Good  extended  just 
so  far  as  that  all-penetrating  gaze,  and  that  where  its 
radiance  fell  not  there  only  were  sorrow  and  death, 
she  looked  up  into  his  eyes,  gratefully,  humbly, 
adoringly,  in  the  boundless  confidence  of  the  deli- 
cious conviction  that  he  loved  her. 

Blanclie's  mother  had  nothing  to  say  against  this 
love.  She  was  a  woman  whose  own  life's  happiness 
had  withered  away  with  the  loss  of  the  husband  in 
whose  heart  it  was  rooted,  and  to  whose  affection  it 
had  opened  its  earliest  blossoms.     All  her  prayers 


NOTRE   DAME   DES  FLOTS.  191 

liad  been  for  him  ■while  he  lived,  and  to  him  ever 
since  his  death. 

It  was  a  Mersay  who  had  made  her  own  life  un- 
speakably happy,  and  he  who  now  wooed  her  daugh- 
ter was  also  a  Mersay.  She  need,  therefore,  have  no 
fears  for  the  security  of  lier  daughter's  internal  hap- 
piness. She  beheld  her  child's  future  with  the  love- 
veiled  looks  in  whose  gaze  was  refiected  all  the  fe- 
licity of  her  own  past. 

But  for  the  security  of  the  child's  external  wel- 
fare she  liad  the  sharp,  anxious  eye  with  which  she 
scanned  her  fields  when  hail-storms  Jiovered  on  the 
horizon.  She  at  once  undertook  to  set  in  order  the 
worldly  affairs  of  her  future  son-in-law,  and  was  the 
more  scrupulous  in  the  matter  that  Arthur  himself 
had  neither  any  idea  of  the  condition  to  which  his 
fortune  was  reduced,  nor  any  care  to  know  it. 

The  result  at  which  she  arrived  made  her  desirous 
that  the  young  couple  should  settle  at  Havre. 

Arthur's  mother  had  been  born  there.  She  was 
the  daughter  of  one  of  those  merchant  princes  wJiose 
riches  float  on  every  sea.  Tiiere  it  was  that  she  had 
first  met  Godefroy  de  Mersa}'-,  in  the  salons  of  the 
Sous-Prefct.  The  young  lady's  lively  fancy  was  at 
once  attracted  by  the  soft  dark  eyes  and  knightly 
grace  of  the  interesting,  dreamy-looking  youth  who 
had  come  from  Paris  to  pore  over  the  manuscripts 
of  Bernardin  de  St.  Pierre  in  the  museum  at  Havre. 
His  character  pleased  her  by  its  contrast  to  the  pas- 
sionate violence  of  her  own.  She  had  little  trouble 
in  inducing  him  to  forsake  Bernardin's  Yirginie  for 
her  sake.     She  was  an  only  child ;  and  being  also  a 


193  NOTEE  DAME  DES  FLOTS. 

wilful  and  a  spoiled  one,  she  overcame  -with  equal 
case  the  purse-pride  of  her  father,  Avhoni  she  soon  per- 
suaded to  receive  with  open  arms,  as  a  son-in-law, 
the  younger  scion  of  a  noble  but  impoverished  fami- 
ly— and  one,  moreover,  who  was  a  scholar  and  poet, 
quite  incapable  of  managing  the  great  fortune  he 
would  receive  with  her  hand. 

Having  thus  attained  her  object,  she  again  became 
entirely  her  father's  daughter.  Because  Godefroy 
had  but  few  wants,  she  looked  upon  him  as  a  poor- 
spirited  fellow,  and  because  he  was  soft  and  gentle, 
he  soon  bored  her.  His  ideal  aspirations  seemed  to 
her  a  mild  sort  of  lunacy,  and  his  steady,  intense  de- 
votion to  her,  intolerably  burdensome.  Her  father, 
she  said,  had  been  right  all  through.  She  went  off 
to  V avis,  pour  se  distraire  w?ij!?6^?/,  intending  to  pass 
the  winter  there,  as  she  informed  her  husband  ;  and 
there  she  remained  for  the  rest  of  her  life.  What 
little  good  there  was  in  her  selfish  and  capricious 
disposition  soon  perished  in  an  unceasing  whirl  of 
dissipation. 

The  child  born  of  this  ill-assorted  marriage  was 
not  suffered  to  interfere  with  the  excitement  and 
frivolity  of  the  mother's  unquiet  existence.  The 
boy,  as  soon  as  born,  was  put  to  nurse  in  the  coun- 
try ;  and  afterwards,  as  soon  as  he  left  college,  the 
stripling  himself  was  prematurely  plunged  into  the 
same  mad  whirl. 

Godefroy  de  Mersay  meanwhile  pursued  his  sad 
and  lonely  path  unnoticed.  The  tender,  weak  man 
bore  liis  burden  uncomplainingly,  as  an  inevitable 
dispensation.     He  idolized  his  wife;  and  when  at 


NOTRE   DAME   DES   FLOTS.  193 

last,  worn  out  with  dissipation,  she  breathed  away 
lier  restless  soul,  he  returned  to  the  solitude  of  his 
liome,  only  to  die  there.  He  had  nothing  more  to 
do  in  the  world,  for  his  son  had  been  quite  estranged 
from  him  by  his  wife. 

The  prodigal  daughter  of  the  Havre  merchant  had 
dissipated  before  she  died  no  inconsiderable  portion 
of  her  large  fortune.  Arthur,  who,  though  in  face 
and  figure  he  resembled  his  father,  was  in  character 
and  heart  the  exact  image  of  his  mother,  had  been 
equally  prodigal,  and  not  much  of  his  maternal  in- 
heritance now  remained.  Only  an  estate  near  Havre, 
which  was  let  to  strangers,  and  a  large  country-house 
with  a  garden,  in  the  town  itself.  The  rent  of  the 
property  had  been  fixed  more  than  a  generation  ago 
by  Arthur's  maternal  grandfather;  and  since  then,  as 
it  was  regularly  paid,  no  one  had  thought  of  raising  it. 

Madame  de  Mersay  drove  over  to  Havre,  and  re- 
turned with  the  conviction  that  the  rent  ought  to  be 
doubled,  and  that  it  would  be  best  for  Arthur  to 
take  the  management  of  the  property  into  his  own 
hands,  so  that  he  might  henceforth  have  some  settled 
and  orderly  occupation. 

Such  was  the  pecuniary  position  of  Arthur  at  the 
time  of  his  marriage,  and  the  dowry  of  Blanche  was 
not  large.  The  moderate  revenues  of  the  De  Mer- 
say estate  had  long  been  declining.  But  Arthur  did 
not  mind  that ;  he  never  cared  for  money-matters. 
He  wished  to  settle  at  once  in  Paris;  and  indeed,  he 
had  already  formed  plans  for  the  maintenance  of 
his  wife's  Parisian  establishment  on  the  most  mag- 
nificent scale. 
13 


194  NOTRE   DAME  DES  FLOTS, 

Madame  de  Mersay  listened  with  a  smile  to  these 
boasts.  She  treated  hiiii  like  a  child  who  cries  for 
the  moon,  and  quietly  pointed  out  to  him  the  impos- 
sibility of  setting  up  house  in  Paris,  even  on  the 
most  modest  footing. 

He  would  have  obstinately  adhered  to  his  plans 
(for  the  Havre  prospect  he  regarded  only  as  a  pet 
hobby  of  his  aunt's,  to  which  he  had  no  intention  of 
paying  serious  attention)  had  it  not  been  for  a  sud- 
den thought  which  rendered  the  idea  of  married  life 
at  Paris  unexpectedly  distasteful  to  him. 

This  thought  came  into  his  mind  one  day  as  he 
Avatched  Blanche  standing  in  the  garden  and  softly 
stroking  Lyon's  head.  A  poignant  jealousy  seized 
him  at  that  sight — jealousy  of  the  dog,  jealousy  of 
the  whole  world,  and  more  especially  of  the  seduc- 
tions of  Paris.  For  he  thought  of  his  mother,  and 
how  she  had  been  hurried  along  by  that  great  frivo- 
lous Parisian  world  into  a  life  of  distraction,  incom- 
patible with  any  sort  of  domestic  affection.  Before 
his  eyes,  between  him  and  Blanche,  rose  the  unwill- 
ingly remembered  images  of  his  own  Parisian  friends 
— idlers  of  the  salon  and  the  boulevard — and  finally 
the  image  of  his  own  Parisian  life.  And  gloomy, 
almost  menacing,  in  those  eyes  was  the  flash  which 
in  that  moment  kindled  the  hard,  far-off  look  of 
them. 

"No,"  he  thought,  "not  Paris!  never  again  Par- 
is!" 

He  would  have  Blanche  all  to  himself.  His  pos- 
session of  the  woman  he  loved  should  be  absolute 
and  exclusive.     Every  word  and  look  of  her,  every 


NOTRE   DAME  DES  FLOTS.  195 

thought  and  interest  of  that  woman's  life,  must  be, 
not  only  his,  but  his  entirely,  and  his  alone.  And  so, 
from  the  window  he  turned  suddenly  to  Madame  do 
Mersay,  who  supposed  that  all  this  while  he  had  been 
carefully  considering  her  plans  about  Havre,  and 
said, 

"  You  are  right ;  I  will  not  take  Blanche  to  Paris." 

Madame  de  Mersay  embraced  her  nephew. 

And  in  the  month  when  the  summer  roses  be- 
gin to  bloom  the  bridal  pair,  beaming  with  hap- 
piness, stood  before  the  altar  in  the  cathedral  of 
Louviers. 

Arthur  did  not  know  that  what  he  had  led  to  that 
sacred  altar  was  only  his  own  glowing  desire ;  and 
Blanche  did  not  guess  that  the  hand  in  which  her 
own  lay  trembling  was  only  that  of  a  vision. 

As  she  passed  out  of  the  porch  of  the  cathedral 
into  the  church-yard  she  paused  a  moment  to  press 
her  beating  heart,  its  happiness  was  so  great. 

The  marvellously  carved  stone-work  of  the  old  ca- 
thedral, whose  delicate  traceries  she  had  so  often  ad- 
mired, hung  rich  above  the  portal  through  which 
she  had  entered  into  her  new  life.  It  Avas  like  a 
mysterious  curtain  broidered  with  fairy  figures,  shut- 
ting out  all  that  once  had  been.  On  this  side  of  it 
began  all  that  was  now  to  be;  and  when  she  lifted 
lier  eyes,  and  saw  the  bright  blue  sky,  and  all  the  by- 
standers looking  kindly  at  her,  life  seemed  so  beauti- 
ful, and  all  the  world  so  dear  and  good,  that  tears  of 
joy  filled  her  eyes,  and  she  could  not  speak  in  answer 
to  Arthur's  whispered  question, 

"  Blanche,  are  you  happy  ?" 


196  NOTEE  DAME   DES  FLOTS. 

She  only  looked  gratefully  up  at  him  with  her 
moist  eyes;  and  her  golden  hair  gushed  from  be- 
neath her  veil,  as  she  bowed  her  happy  head  in  all- 
sufficient  response  to  that  whisper. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Madame  de  Meesay  continued  to  live  at  the  old 
chateau,  near  the  grave  of  her  husband. 

The  young  couple  left  her,  some  days  after  the 
wedding,  for  their  home  at  Havre.  During  their 
journey,  they  chattered,  at  first,  like  two  silly  chil- 
dren; then  they  spoke  of  the  future  like  two  serious 
children ;  and  finally  they  sat  quite  silent. 

Arthur  was  weaving  his  ambitious  thoughts,  fur- 
ther and  deeper  every  moment,  into  the  widening 
woof  of  a  vast  enterprise  in  South  America,  of 
which  the  grand  and  original  conception  had  been 
fascinating  his  fancy  ever  since  his  first  visit  to 
Havre  for  the  preparatign  of  the  home  to  which  he 
was  now  taking  his  bride. 

The  precise  form  which  this  enterprise  was  to  as- 
sume he  had  not  yet  quite  settled ;  he  only  saw,  in 
the  future,  numerous  ships  belonging  to  it  ploughing 
the  Atlantic,  and  pouring  the  treasures  of  the  New 
World  at  his  feet.  He  had  no  fear  of  failure ;  his 
fancy  presented  to  him  a  picture  of  all  the  merchant 
princes  of  Havre  eagerly  rallying  around  him  in 
support  of  the  enterprise  which  was  to  bear  his  name. 
Possibly  it  was  the  business-like  character  of  his 


NOTRE  DAME   DES   FLOTS.  197 

mother-in-law's  preoccupations  on  liis  behalf  that 
had  thus  turned  his  thoughts,  for  the  first  time,  along 
the  track  of  commercial  calculations.  But  he  did 
not  fix  them  on  the  track  itself — they  were  already 
concentrated  upon  the  end  of  it ;  and  the  idea  of 
South  America  had  occurred  to  him  because  the  last 
years  of  his  life  had  been  passed  there. 

While  thus  musing,  he  held  Blanche's  hand  in  his 
own.  It  was  only  for  her  sake,  he  said  to  himself, 
that  he  had  thought  of  all  this.  She  should  be  rich, 
and  surrounded  by  every  splendor  and  luxury  that 
wealth  could  procure  for  her. 

Blanche,  meanwhile,  as  she  leaned  her  head  upon 
her  husband's  shoulder,  was  dreamily  absorbing  into 
the  bliss  of  her  own  heart  the  shining  repose  of  the 
beautiful  valley  of  the  Seine,  which,  as  they  passed 
along  it,  softly  melted  from  one  delightful  picture 
into  another,  clear  and  bright  as  the  sunny  landscapes 
of  Claude  Lorraine. 

The  busy  life  of  the  seaport  town  recalled  them 
both  to  earth.  With  a  start  the  two  dreamers  awoke, 
the  husband  from  his  calculations,  the  wife  from  her 
golden  reveries ;  and  at  last  they  were  at  home  upon 
the  sea-girt  cliffs  of  Ingouville,  which,  covered  with 
villas  and  gardens,  stretch  northward  from  the  town 
of  Havre. 

When,  arm-in-arm  with  Arthur,  Blanche  stepped 
on  to  the  balcony  of  her  new  drawing-room,  she  saw 
beneath  her,  in  the  warm  evening  light,  a  terraced 
garden  glowing  with  flowers ;  and  lower  down,  at 
the  foot  of  the  cliffs,  the  bay  of  Havre,  its  shore  clus- 
tered with  houses,  its  liaven  thronged  with  masts ; 


198  NOTRE   DAME   DES   FLOTS. 

and  all  around,  and  far  beyond  it,  far  as  her  gaze 
could  reacli,  the  shining  levels  of  the  great  cahu 
sea. 

The  sun  was  already  deep  in  the  Avest,  and  had 
begun  to  dip  his  broad  red  orb  below  the  ridge  of 
Cap  la  Heve ;  but  his  rays  still  overspread  the  heav- 
ens and  the  earth,  and  gleamed  along  a  golden  inlet 
in  the  east,  where  the  waters  of  the  Seine  flowed 
down  into  the  sea.  About  the  sea  itself  numbers 
of  little  sails  were  glittering  red,  like  festive  flags  in 
the  evening  glow,  and  upon  the  wide  unrippled  wa- 
ters a  red-gold  glory  rested.  Far  away  upon  the 
distant  horizon  the  streaming  smoke  of  a  great  pack- 
et-ship, outward  bound,  looked  only  like  a  little  dark 
feather  floating  in  the  flushed  air  of  sunset. 

Blanche  passed  one  hand  across  her  eyes,  as  if  it 
were  all  a  dream,  and  laid  the  other  on  her  heart. 
It  was  long  before  she  could  find  words  for  what 
she  felt  there ;  but  at  last  she  said,  speaking  under 
her  breath, 

"Arthur,  your  father  often  stood  jnst  where  we 
are  standing  now,  in  the  evening  glow,  gazing  on 
this  enchanting  picture.  Uncle  Godefroy  often  spoke 
to  me  of  the  sunsets  he  had  watched  from  Ingou- 
ville.  He  called  them  his  evening  prayers.  It  was, 
he  once  told  me,  in  such  an  hour  as  this — here,  on 
this  very  balcony — that  he  first  confessed  his  love  to 
your  mother.  IIow  all  these  reminiscences  seem  to 
mingle,  in  splendor  and  repose,  with  the  unspeakable 
felicity  of  our  own  love,  while  we  stand  as  tliey  did, 
on  the  same  spot,  looking  at  the  same  scene!" 

Arthur's  gaze  had  been  fixed  all  this  while  upon 


NOTRE   DAME   DES   FLOTS.  199 

one  dark  spot  on  the  distant  splendors  of  the  horizon 
— tlie  smoke  of  that  outward-bonnd  packet-ship. 

"  I  am  so  glad,  for  3'our  sake,  Blanche,"  he  an- 
swered, "  that  yon  like  tliis  place." 

And  then,  with  a  start,  he  added,  "Blanche  de 
Mersay  shall  one  day  rule  over  yonder  sea ;  hers  shall 
be  the  ships  in  yonder  haven,  and  like  a  queen  shall 
she  look  down  upon  the  merchant  town  that  now  lies 
stretched  at  her  feet !" 

Blanche  looked  up  wonderingly  at  these  words, 
which  were  quite  unintelligible  to  her.  Then,  with 
a  shy  smile,  she  leaned  her  head  timidly  upon  his 
breast  and  whispered, 

"I  want  nothing,  Arthur,  but  to  love  and  serve 
you." 

And  truly  this  she  did  from  that  time  forward. 
All  the  virtues  which  had  taken  steadfast  root  in  the 
characters  of  her  parents  put  forth  their  brightest 
blossoms  in  her  own.  From  her  mother  she  inher- 
ited the  gift  of  making  a  pleasant  home ;  from  her 
father,  an  activity  never  tired,  always  cheerful.  Her 
love  taught  her  to  guess  her  husband's  wishes  in  his 
looks,  and  enabled  her  to  anticipate  their  utterance. 

In  these  active  pieties  of  affection  the  full  beau- 
ty and  abundant  loveliness  of  her  nature  found,  for 
the  first  time,  their  complete  expression.  As  the 
warmth  of  spring  dissolves  the  snows  of  May,  the 
devotion  of  the  wife  relaxed  the  maiden  reserve  of 
the  girl,  only  to  bring  forth  in  ever-increasing  opu- 
lence the  bloom  and  fragrance  of  her  perfect  wom- 
anhood. 

And  for  all  she  s:ave  she  was  contented  with  such 


300  NOTRE  DAME   DES   FLOTS. 

small  returns.  Ills  love  was  to  her  not  the  natural 
recognition  of  a  right,  but  the  miraculous  bestowal 
of  a  grace  so  great  that  the  least  manifestations  of 
it  were  priceless.  For  a  kind  look  or  a  tender  word 
she  was  unboundedly  grateful.  If  Arthur  picked 
her  a  flower  to  put  in  her  hair,  she  could  not  lind  in 
the  fulness  of  her  heart  words  enough  to  thank  him. 
She  stood  before  her  glass  admiring  the  flower  he 
had  given  her,  with  as  much  pride  and  satisfaction 
as  any  other  woman,  if  only  half  as  beautiful,  would 
have  felt,  when  she  looked  at  her  glass,  in  admiring 
herself. 

"You  are  too  good  to  me,  Arthur!"  she  would 
exclaim  on  those  occasions,  clasping  her  exquisite 
arms  about  his  neck  ;  and  then  she  would  stand  on 
tiptoe,  that  he  tnight  the  better  see  how  beautiful 
his  flower  looked. 

In  this  way  Blanche  took  and  cherished,  as  the 
highest  and  the  best  in  life,  the  nearest  and  least 
gift  of  the  passing  moment — a  gift  unexpected  and 
undeserved.  And  in  return  for  such  gifts,  she  cheer- 
fully consecrated  to  his  service  every  occasion  that 
time  and  place  vouchsafed  her. 

The  abiding  vigilance  of  her  afi'ection  never  failed 
to  detect  and  seize  even  the  most  fleeting  opportuni- 
ty of  proving  its  devotion.  And  her  hands  instinct- 
ively turned  to  whatever  work,  and  her  feet  to  what- 
ever way,  chance  placed  from  hour  to  hour  within 
the  reacli  of  this  unwearied  purpose.  All  she  did, 
and  all  she  refrained  from  doing,  was  in  submissive 
obedience  to  love's  claim  upon  each  hour  as  it  came 
— a  tender  abandonment  of  her  whole  being:  to  the 


NOTRE   DAME   DES  FLOTS.  201 

present,  and  a  gracious  devotion  to  it.  What  thus 
might  come  to  her,  or  become  of  her,  by -and -by, 
was  a  consideration  which  found  no  phice  in  her  life. 
She  lieaped  together,  as  it  we're,  with  both  hands, 
the  treasures  of  lier  heart,  and  poured  them  at  the 
feet  of  her  beloved,  never  heeding  how  many  of 
them  thus  fell  unseen  and  unnoticed  by  him.  Why 
should  she  reckon  her  riches  or  stint  their  expendi- 
ture ?     She  knew  her  heart  was  inexhaustible. 

Arthur's  nature,  which,  unlike  his  wife's,  was  al- 
ways fretfully  straining  towards  the  future  and  the 
far,  yielded  at  first  to  the  charm  with  which,  for  him, 
she  had  invested  the  present;  and  its  habitual  im- 
patience slumbered  for  a  while  beneath  the  spell  of 
those  soft  hands  whicli  held  the  sweet  hours  fast. 

He  was  like  a  wanderer  who,  hastening  with  eager 
steps  from  hill  to  hill  along  some  mountain -range, 
lias  reached  at  last  the  summit  nearest  heaven. 
There  he  rests  a  while,  well  pleased.  The  pure  air  of 
those  serene  precincts  fans  his  heated  forehead  cool ; 
and  in  contented  repose  he  gazes  now  upon  the  ethe- 
real aznre  above  him,  now  upon  the  smiling  valleys 
below,  and  then  upon  the  mountain -flowers  that 
blossom  at  his  feet.  This  lasts  perhaps  an  hour. 
Then  he  is  rested,  and  keenly  scans  the  distant  pros- 
pect towards  which  his  way  still  lies.  Fresh  sum- 
mits rise  there,  half  veiled  in  cloud — summits  still  to 
climb,  and  vast  mysterious  gorges  still  to  be  explored  ! 
Already  the  spot  on  wdiich  he  stands  has  lost  its 
charm. 

So  fared  it  with  the  charm  which  the  present,  em- 
bodied in  the  sweet  image  of  his  wife,  still  exercised 


202  NOTRE  DAME  DES  FLOTS. 

over  Arthur.  It  lasted,  but  not  for  long.  After  a 
short  while  the  devouring  acquisitiveness  of  his  nat- 
ure had  consumed  all  that  was  given  to  it  without 
resistance  or  reserve ;  and  he  again  fell  a  prey  to 
that  dissatisfaction  with  the  world  and  himself — that 
lethargy  of  satiety  into  which  he  invariably  relapsed 
after  the  attainment  of  his  wishes. 

In  this  condition  of  mind,  his  great  South  Ameri- 
can scheme  was  the  first  stimulant  to  which  he  had 
recourse.  lie  who  had  never  known  the  woi'th  of  a 
franc,  and  had  always  cherished  the  maxim  "L'argent 
peu,"  now  began  to  read  with  eagerness  the  quota- 
tions of  the  Bourse,  the  foreign  exchanges,  and  the 
commercial  news.  He  became  a  subscriber  to  the 
Courrier  du  Havre^  and  studied  in  it  the  numbers, 
names,  and  freights  of  the  local  shipping.  He  stood 
for  hours  before  an  enormous  map  of  South  Aujerica, 
and  knit  his  eyebrows  if,  during  these  important  oc- 
cupations, Blanche  stole  into  his  room. 

She  no  longer  ventured  to  go  near  him,  or  to  take 
his  arm  and  wander  chatting  with  him  about  the 
house  or  through  the  garden.  Tiieir  pleasant  daily 
walks  down  to  Havre  or  round  the  cape  were  grad- 
ually discontinued.  Their  delightful  excursions 
across  the  bay  of  Ilonfleiir,  or  Trouville,  and  even 
sometimes  to  Caen,  had  grown  rarer  by  degrees,  and 
at  last  they  ceased  altogether. 

When  Arthur  took  up  his  hat,  and  Blanche  looked 
at  him  with  the  imploring  eyes  of  a  timid  child, 
whose  look  was  a  mute  entreaty  to  be  allowed  to  go 
with  him,  he  now  invariably  replied,  in  a  hasty  tone, 
and  with  an  absent  air. 


NOTRE  DAME  DES   FLOTS.  203 

"  Yon  must  excuse  me  to-day,  my  angel ;  I  am  go- 
ing out  upon  pressing  and  important  business.  Go 
and  see,  meanwhile,  if  the  hyacinths  in  the  garden  arc 
3-et  in  bloom." 

To-day  it  was  the  hyacintlis,  to-morrow  the  roses — 
every  day  a  different  flower  that  she  was  asked  to 
look  after,  for  the  sake  of  varying  that  otherwise  in- 
variable answer.  The  flowers  he  named  were,  gen- 
erally, those  which  happened  to  be  out  of  season,  and 
faded  long  ago ;  but  J31anchc  went  through  the  re- 
quired formality,  and  duly  examined  the  dead  brown 
flowers  lying  on  the  ground, 

Tlie  walks  she  was  not  permitted  to  accompany 
were  indeed  "  upon  business  bent,"  for  her  husband 
was  now  looking  everywhere  for  connections  with 
the  principal  merchants  and  ship-owners  of  the  town. 
These  worthies  honored  his  name  with  a  respectful 
bow,  and  listened  to  liis  projects  with  a  polite  smile; 
but  not  one  of  them  ever  treated  him  au  serieux. 
He  called  them  a  set  of  narrow-minded  epiciers,  and 
turned  with  his  usual  impetuosity,  in  search  of  bet- 
ter fortune,  to  the  minor  magnates  of  the  mercantile 
communit3\  They  also,  however,  regarded  him  only 
as  a  petulant  child,  who  seemed  to  think  that  he  could 
liave  the  sun  and  moon  for  playthings. 

Arthur  never  took  his  wife  with  him  into  these 
commercial  circles ;  nor,  indeed,  did  he  ever  take  her 
into  society  of  any  sort.  He  still  held  fast  to  what 
he  told  Blanche  when  she  became  his  bride :  that  they 
were  to  live  only  for  each  other,  and  entirely  out  of 
the  world. 

Blanche  herself,  reared  as  she  was  in  loneliness  and 


204  NOTRE  DAME  DES  FLOTS. 

seclusion,  had  no  otlier  wish.  The  cliarming  idyl  of 
two  lives  thus  woven  into  one  had  always  been  a 
sweet  dream  to  her;  but  it  was  now  a  dream  which 
she  was  often  left  to  dream  alone. 

About  this  time  the  sudden  death  of  Madame  de 
Mersay  brought  about  a  situation  in  which  Blanche 
became  once  more,  for  a  while,  the  central  object  of 
Arthur's  tlioughts  and  occupations.  The  intensity 
of  licr  grief  was  an  entirely  new  revelation  to  him. 
It  opened  to  his  sight  depths  in  her  soul  quite  nn- 
known  to  him,  and  not  even  intelligible  to  such  a 
nature  as  his.  Till  then  he  had  seen  the  imago  of 
his  wife  only  in  the  sunshine  of  love;  now  it  stood 
before  him  in  the  double  light  of  love  and  sorrow. 

The  unwonted  coloring  its  beauty  took  from  this 
twofold  aspect  was  not  unattractive  to  him.  But  his 
eye  soon  became  accustomed  to  it;  and  meanwhile 
his  mind  was  already  occupied  less  about  Blanche 
herself  than  about  the  sale  of  her  property. 

Blanche,  for  her  part,  though  she  was  fond  of  In- 
gouville,  would  have  liked  to  live  with  Arthur  where 
her  father  and  mother  had  passed  their  lives  in  tran- 
quil happiness;  yet  she  was  content,  since  Arthur 
wished  it  otherwise.  It  pained  her,  however,  when 
she  heard  that  the  home  of  her  forefathers  was  to  be 
pulled  down,  and  the  old  trees  in  the  park  felled  and 
sold,  to  make  room  for  mills  and  factories. 

Arthur  was  obliged  to  go  several  times  to  Paris  for 
the  personal  negotiation  with  Monsieur  Dumont,  its 
purchaser,  of  various  details  connected  with  the  sale 
of  the  estate.  Blanche  meanwhile  lived  upon  the 
few  last  words  and  looks  with  which  he  liad  taken 


NOTRE   DAME   DES   FLOTS.  205 

hasty  leave  of  her;  and  what  was  at  first  a  cause, 
became  by  degrees  only  a  pretext,  for  absence. 

He  now  went  oftener  to  Paris,  and  he  stayed  there 
longer  every  time.  The  Boulevards,  on  which  he 
had  not  set  foot  since  his  voyage  to  South  America, 
had  assumed  for  Arthur  de  Mersay  all  the  charm  of 
novelty.  The  Bois  de  Boulogne  appeared  to  him, 
after  an  absence  of  several  years,  like  a  newly  dis- 
covered country.  The  old  acquaintances  he  picked 
np  again  at  Paris  were  as  good  as  new*  ones,  since 
they  presented  to  him  features  which  time  had  either 
altered  or  effaced  from  his  recollection.  The  figure 
he  himself  cut  in  the  midst  of  them  seemed  to  him 
at  first  a  little  ridiculous,  and  he  felt  rather  ashamed 
of  his  own  provincialism.  Then  he  wondered  wheth- 
er provincial  life  would  ever  move  in  a  century  as 
fast  as  the  world  of  Paris  in  a  year.  He  longed  to 
explore  this  altered  world  in  all  its  aspects,  and  he 
was  soon  whirled  away  by  it. 

After  a  little  while  the  thought  of  Havre  threw 
him  into  a  cold  shudder;  for  there,  and  indeed  ev- 
erywhere except  at  Paris,  the  spectre  of  Ennui  la^^ 
in  lurk  for  him,  and  it  was  only  inside  the  walls  of 
Paris  that  he  thought  himself  safe  from  its  pursuit. 
For-a  w'hile  he  entertained  a  vague  intention  of  tell- 
ing Blanche  to  join  him  there;  but  he  forgot  it,  as 
he  forgot  all  his  grand  commercial  projects,  and  ev- 
erything that  he  had  cared  about  before.  A  more 
potent  attraction  had  already  excited  his  never-rest- 
ing covetousness ;  and  towards  the  attainment  of  the 
object  to  which  it  allured  him  he  was  straining  to 
the  utmost  all  the  energies  it  had  revived  in  him. 


806  NOTRE  DAME  DES  FLOTS. 

This  object  was  Mademoiselle  Julie  Oeillet,  a  mem- 
ber of  the  corj)s  de  ballet  of  the  Grand  Opera. 

Mademoiselle  Oeillet  had  the  blue-black  hair  and 
the  e3-ebro\vs  and  the  eyes  of  a  native  of  the  Equa- 
torial Desert,  with  the  olive  complexion  of  a  Sicilian. 
All  about  her  breathed  of  the  glowing  south ;  and 
in  the  fervid  atmosphere  of  her  presence  Arthur 
forgot  that  snow-white  image  of  the  north — his  wife. 
Between  these  two  women  the  inward  contrast  was 
even  greater  than  the  outward  ;  only  here  the  differ- 
ence was  reversed.  In  the  soul  of  the  fair  daughter 
of  the  north  were  all  the  sweets  and  ardors  of  the 
south  ;  and  in  the  swarthy  child  of  torrid  suns,  all 
the  frost  and  ice  of  the  polar  zone. 

Mademoiselle  Oeillet  was  no  coryphee  of  the  bal- 
let, nor  could  she  ever  become  one.  Her  body  was 
made  for  the  plastic  repose  of  the  antique  tragedj', 
and  not  for  lively  movement.  Her  form  and  feat- 
ures served  npon  the  stage  as  a  restful  background 
to  a  series  of  shifting  groups,  and  such  was  the  nar- 
row sphere  relentlessly  proscribed  by  the  stage  man- 
agement to  her  activity.  Mademoiselle  Oeillet  had 
rebelled  against  this  decree,  and  first  she  stormed, 
and  then  she  wept,  but  finally  she  accepted  it  with  a 
smile;  for  in  the  mean  while  she  had  discovered  that 
she  could  play  in  the  world  a  more  shining  part  than 
that  which  was  reserved  for  \.\\Q)  jprima  hallerina  on 
the  stage. 

At  first  she  was  satisfied  with  the  modest  cUhut  of 
Monsieur  de  Mersay.  He  did  very  well,  to  begin  with. 
He  had  a  handsome  face,  a  distinguished  appearance, 
agreeable  friends,  and  money  always  ready  as  often 


NOTRE  DAME   DES  FLOTS.  207 

as  slie  wanted  anything — and  her  wants  were  many. 
She  allowed  him  to  send  her  nosegays  and  bracelets, 
to  pay  her  bills,  to  pnt  a  carriage  at  her  disposal,  to 
call  on  her  in  her  house,  and  to  reciprocate  the  in- 
flammatory glances  she  vouchsafed  him  at  the  Op- 
era. These  were  his  privileges,  but  they  went  no 
farther.  Mademoiselle  Oeillet  had  an  intuitive  tal- 
ent for  the  art  of  taking  everything  and  granting 
nothing.  She  only  liked  beginnings,  and  knew  ex- 
actly Avhen  and  how  to  glide  gracefully  out  of  the 
room  before  the  end  got  too  near.  Hope  Deferred 
knocked  all  the  more  eagerly  at  her  door  next  da}'. 

Julie  Oeillet  could  only  read  print  with  difKculty, 
but  she  read  human  character  with  ease.  In  an  hour 
she  had  read  Arthur  de  Mersay  through  and  through, 
and  knew  that  his  devotion  was  only  to  be  retained 
by  constantly  stimulating,  and  never  satisfying,  his 
covetousness.  This  was  to  her  an  easy  task,  for  it 
coincided  with  the  bent  of  her  own  nature.  Its 
performance,  instead  of  obliging  her  to  play  a  part, 
permitted  her  to  indulge  her  natural  disposition  un- 
restrained. Slie  listened  with  cool  indifference  to 
Arthur's  passionate  declarations,  answered  his  sighs 
with  a  laugh,  and  his  despair  with  an  air  from  Offen- 
bach. If  this  threw  him  into  a  cold  fit,  she  could 
always  revive  him  from  it  by  a  gush  of  Syrian  sun- 
shine from  that  sultry  heaven  in  her  eyes  which  at 
once  became  overclouded  and  as  cold  as  winter  when 
the  hot  fit  on  him  grew  too  hot. 

Into  the  sweetest  understanding  she  contrived  to 
introduce  an  indefinable  something  which  jarred  its 
symmetry;  she  knew  how  to  strike  a  discord  from 


208  NOTRE  DAME  DES  FLOTS. 

the  most  perfect  harmony,  how  to  temper  tlie  most 
excited  fli<;hts  of  emotion  by  the  timely  application 
of  a  prosaic  word ;  and  could  drench  lire  or  kindle 
oil  to  precisely  the  tenjperatnre  she  wanted.  Her 
relations  with  Arthur  de  Mersay  were  a  continual 
conflict  between  blind  passion  on  the  one  side  and 
calculating  coquetry  on  the  other,  which  kept  him 
breathless,  and  oblivious  of  everything  else. 

To  Havre  he  only  returned  occasionally,  and  at 
long  intervals,  for  the  few  days  during  which  Julie, 
in  her  calculated  caprices,  from  time  to  time  denied 
her  door  to  him.  She  never  withdrew  these  inter- 
dictions, which  he  obeyed,  grinding  his  teeth  with 
unavailing  rage;  and  his  wife  became  the  victim  of 
the  ill-temper  in  which,  on  these  occasions  only,  he 
rejoined  her. 

Blanche  was  all  this  while  as  if  in  a  narcotic  slum- 
ber— a  sort  of  opium-dream  from  which  she  could 
not  rouse  herself,  thouorh  the  warnino'  alarum  sound- 
ed  shrill  and  often  at  her  ear.  She  awaited  Arthur's 
return,  at  first  for  days,  then  for  weeks,  then  for 
months;  and  each  time  she  had  to  learn  anew  the 
lesson  of  absence,  as  if  each  tiuie  were  the  flrst  time, 
so  hard  that  lesson  was  to  her,  and  so  incomprehen- 
sible ! 

She  counted  the  seconds  as  a  deserted  child  counts 
the  rain-drops  on  the  pane,  and  their  loitering  fall 
was  infinitely  slower  than  the  unsatisfied  beating  of 
her  young  heart.  She  sat  at  the  window,  starting 
and  looking  out  countless  times  in  the  course  of  the 
endless  day,  \yhenever  a  wheel  or  a  footstep  sounded 
near,  and  then  searching  the  empty  high-road  with 


NOTRE   DAME   DES  FLOTS.  209 

an  anxious  look  that  was  cv^er  on  tlie  watch  for  what 
it  never  found.  She  lay  during  the  long  nights 
listening  in  the  dark  for  the  sound  of  a  step  that 
she  remembered,  and  heard  nothing  but  the  feverish 
throbbing  in  her  own  temples. 

The  knowledge  came  to  her  at  last  of  the  secret 
which  Arthur  was  keeping  so  far  away  from  her. 
With  his  accustomed  carelessness,  he  let  bills,  ac- 
counts, and  letters  lie  about  upon  his  table.  Julie's 
letters  were  among  them.  During  his  absence, 
Blanche,  whose  instinct  was  to  make  all  around  her 
neat  and  orderly,  used  to  tidy  his  papers  for  him ; 
and  on  one  of  these  occasions  her  eye  fell  by  chance 
on  the  contents  of  a  letter  from  Julie  to  her  husband. 
She  looked  no  farther,  but  what  she  had  seen  went 
far  enough.  It  was  a  shock  that  took  away  her 
breath — a  pang  of  acute  physical  pain.  She  turned 
deadly  pale,  and  clasped  both  hands  convulsively 
upon  her  heart. 

This  lasted  no  longer  than  the  stab  of  a  knife. 
But  the  open  wound  remained  ;  and  for  many  a  long 
day  after  that,  the  stricken  woman  wept  silently,  un- 
complainingly, by  herself,  and  to  herself  alone,  in 
her  fresh  solitude. 

The  heart  of  Blanche,  however,  was  one  of  those 
which  must  continue  to  dream  until  they  cease  to 
beat.  Even  the  rudest  experience  does  not  entirely 
awake  them  from  their  visions ;  and  to  her  this  shock 
was  only  like  a  cold  wind  blowing  upon  her  shut 
eyes,  which,  with  a  heavy  effort,  opened  a  little,  and 
then  closed  again  before  the  reality  could  become 
distinctly  perceptible  to  her. 
14 


210  NOTRE  DAME   DES   FLOTS. 

So  the  dream  went  on,  tliongh  upon  a  new  track 
less  lovely  than  the  old  one,  which  that  rude  inter- 
ruption had  broken  down.  The  old  track  blossomed 
like  the  garden  of  her  home,  and  was  sweet  with  the 
breath  of  roses  and  the  song  of  nightingales,  in  shad- 
owy depths  of  unfathomable  verdure.  The  new  one 
stretched  barren  before  her,  like  a  long,  unshadowed 
waste  of  stony  ground,  beneath  a  burning  glare, 
which  she  henceforth  must  tread,  barefooted  and 
bareheaded,  as  a  penitent.  For  she  laid  upon  her- 
self all  the  fault  of  Arthur's  estrangement  from  her, 
though  she  could  not  guess  in  what  she  had  fail- 
ed towards  him  ;  and  she  believed  that,  at  the  end 
of  her  weary  penitential  pilgrimage,  a  new  garden 
would  blossom  by-and-by. 

Her  faith  in  him  was  still  unshaken.  Something 
of  the  glamour  with  which  her  heart  had  first  adorned 
him  was  stripped  off;  but  she  thought,  with  self-re- 
proach, that  it  was  the  awkwardness  of  her  own  hand 
that  had  done  this.  She  never  gave  way  to  doubts 
of  her  ultimate  success  in  the  unceasing  endeavor  to 
fill  up  or  bridge  over  the  abyss  which  had  so  inex- 
plicably opened  between  them,  and  the  tenacity  of 
her  infinite  trustfulness  was  unconfounded  by  the 
pereistence  with  which  his  inveterate  indifference  to 
the  treasures  she  threw  into  it  was  daily  widening 
that  abyss. 

That  she  did  not  completely  break  down,  however, 
was  mainly  owing  to  the  fact  that  about  this  time 
she  became  a  mother.  Now,  at  least,  there  was  one 
living  human  creature  about  whose  being  she  might 
pour,  in  unrepulsed  abundance,  all  the  long -pent 


NOTRE   DAME   DES  FLOTS.  211 

yearning  love  of  her  Jieart,  all  the  overflowing  fer- 
vor of  her  soul.  And  from  the  faded  dreams  of  lier 
own  childhood  she  wove  fresh  dreams  for  her  child. 

When,  with  tears  of  joy,  she  showed  his  infant 
daughter  for  the  first  time  to  Arthur,  who,  some 
weeks  after  her  confinement,  had  unexpectedly  re- 
turned to  Havre  for  a  day  or  two,  he  looked  absent- 
ly at  the  child.  Then,  after  a  few  irresolute  turns 
up  and  down  the  room,  he  walked  to  the  window, 
and  said,  looking  through  it,  with  his  back  to  her, 

"  Financial  affairs,  full  of  anxiety  and  difficulty, 
will  probably  keep  me  long  away  from  you  on  my 
return  to  Paris.  For  the  short  time  I  can  stay  here 
I  shall  live  down-stairs.  The  noise  of  children  has 
always  made  me  nervous,  and  would  now  make  me 
ill.  Call  this  an  idiosyncrasy  of  mine,  or  what  you 
will,  but  I  can't  bear  it." 

Blanche  turned  her  large  eyes  steadfastly  towards 
him  ;  and  for  this  one  time  she  tried  to  speak,  and  did 
speak,  to  her  husband  words  of  clear  and  weighty 
truth,  while  she  kept  her  hand  upon  the  beating  heart 
of  her  child ;  for  so  weak  was  her  power  of  self-asser- 
tion that  she  would  not  have  had  the  courage  to  utter 
them  had  she  felt  the  beating  of  her  own  heart ;  and, 
as  it  was,  they  died  away  at  last  in  sobs. 

Arthur  listened  silently.  The  scar  upon  his  fore- 
liead  turned  to  a  deep  red,  while  his  face  beneath  it 
grew  colorless. 

Just  so,  in  days  long  passed,  had  another  woman, 
driven  at  last  to  bay,  risen  up  and  stood  before  him 
with  a  child  in  her  arms — another  woman,  fair  and 
wan  as  this  one.     And  the  words  of  this  one  were 


213  NOTKE  DAME   DES  FLOTS. 

as  the  words  of  the  otlier.  They  came  back  to  liitn 
like  ghostly  echoes  from  a  long-forgotten  world  that 
was  uo  more.  And  the  image  of  the  living  woman 
was  so  terribly  like  that  of  the  dead  one ! 

lie  shivered,  and  stared  with  wide-open  eyes  on 
Blanche,  but  did  not  answer  her.  Half  an  hour  af- 
terwards, however,  he  retnrned  to  Paris,  without  a 
word  of  farewell. 

Three  months  passed  away  without  a  line  from 
him. 

At  the  end  of  that  time  he  came  back  unexpect- 
edly, and  in  great  agitation.  He  entered  the  house 
in  haste,  without  a  word  or  a  look  to  any  one,  strode 
restlessly  through  all  the  rooms,  then  through  all  the 
garden,  and  then  back  again  from  room  to  room. 
He  examined  everything  with  keen  eyes,  as  if  seeing 
it  for  the  first  time,  and  at  last  he  sunk  wearily  into 
a  fauteuil,  and  in  a  hard,  dry  voice  said,  without  look- 
ing at  Blanche, 

"I  am  obliged  to  sell  this  place.  It  is  too  expen- 
sive, and  I  can  no  longer  afford  the  luxury  of  keep- 
ing it  up.  The  money  realized  from  the  sale  of 
your  property  is  unfortunately  lost  in  an  unlucky 
speculation,  as  also  the  greater  part  of  your  dowry. 
I  regret  it  for  your  sake,  but  regret  helps  nothing. 
We  must  retrench  our  expenses." 

He  said  all  this  rapidly  and  fluently,  without  chang- 
ing his  voice,  like  a  school-boy  who  is  repeating  a 
lesson  he  has  got  by  heart. 

The  words  were  cold  and  lifeless,  but  Blanche  at- 
tributed them  to  all  the  emotions  of  a  mind  broken 
by  afflicting  anxiety ;  and  as  her  own  best  consola- 


NOTRE   DAME   DES  FLOTS.  213 

tiou  was  the  child,  slic  hoped  it  might  be  his  also. 
So  she  took  him  by  the  hand,  and  led  him  up-stairs 
to  the  little  bed  in  which  the  infant  lay  smiling 
asleep.  She  said  not  a  word  about  her  lost  fortune, 
or  the  home  she  was  to  lose.  She  onlj^  spoke  to  him 
about  the  smile  upon  their  child's  face.  But  to  him 
her  words  were  as  lifeless  as  his  own. 

The  purchaser  of  Ingouville  was  Monsieur  Du- 
mont,  who  had  also  bought  the  De  Mersay  estate  near 
Louviers.  He  arrived  the  same  day,  to  inspect  the 
premises  he  had  offered  to  buy.  He  had  a  large  man- 
ufactory at  Havre,  and  wanted  Ingouville  for  a  sum- 
mer residence.  He  took  advantage  of  Arthur's  vis- 
ible impatience  to  have  the  whole  purchase-money 
paid  at  once,  and  thus  got  the  place,  without  lengthy 
negotiations,  for  half  its  real  value. 

Arthur,  taking  for  Blanche  a  small  lodging  in 
Havre,  returned  to  Paris  with  the  banker. 

Some  weeks  after  his  departure,  Blanche  stood  for 
the  last  time  upon  the  balcony  of  her  home  at  Ingou- 
ville— not  this  time  with  Arthur,  who  had  not  re- 
turned from  Paris,  but  with  her  child  in  her  arms. 
The  last  evening  was  like  the  first — in  all  its  external 
aspects,  at  least.  The  broad  flame  of  sunset  spread 
bright  and  pure  behind  Cap  la  H^ve;  sea,  land,  and 
sky  shone  rosy  red,  and  the  spire  of  Notre  Dame  des 
Flots  pointed,  like  a  dark  finger,  to  the  glowing  clouds 
that  roofed  the  golden  chambers  of  the  west. 

Blanche  embraced  all  this  glory  with  a  farewell 
gaze,  but  she  shed  no  tears.  She  was  taking  her  hap- 
piness away  with  her.  The  little  one  smiled  while  it 
spread  out  its  plump  dimpled  arms,  as  if  to  grasp  the 


214  NOTRE   DAME   DES  FLOTS. 

glory  of  the  evening  sky ;  and  the  mpther,  smiling 
also,  pressed  her  happiness  to  her  breast,  and  went. 

But  there  was  no  staying  in  the  new  home.  Soon 
she  was  ordered  to  change  it  for  another,  and  a  poor- 
er one,  in  the  remotest  part  of  the  town  near  the  sea, 
where  the  fishermen  lived.  Arthur  now  never  came 
to  see  her.  The  little  sums  he  sent  her  from  time 
to  time  were  insufficient  for  the  most  indispensable 
wants.  Gradually  they  grew  more  and  more  infre- 
quent. At  last  he  wrote  to  her  that,  being  himself 
without  a  son  in  the  world,  he  could  send  her  noth- 
ing more. 

Blanche  had  sold  by  degrees  all  her  jewels,  and 
whatever  else  of  life's  external  embellishments  was 
left  her ;  her  only  remaining  personal  property  be- 
longed to  its  strictest  necessities. 

In  some  of  the  idle  hours  of  her  girlhood  she  had 
once  done  embroiderj'-work  for  her  amusement ;  now 
she  did  it  again  for  her  livelihood.  When  the  last 
letter  came  from  Arthur,  she  took  her  embroideries 
to  a  shop,  where  she  succeeded  in  disposing  of  them 
for  less  than  they  were  worth.  She  begged  for  or- 
ders, and  got  as  many  as  she  could  execute.  The 
delicate  daughter  of  the  De  Mersays  sat  from  morn- 
ing till  night,  bent  at  her  low  window,  and  working 
for  her  daily  bread.  Forty  sous  a  day  she  got  for  it, 
and  that  was  her  all  in  all. 

On  Sunda_ys  she  took  a  walk  with  her  child  to  the 
church  of  Notre  Dame  des  Ftots,  npon  the  cape. 
Through  all  the  rest  of  the  week,  day  by  day,  hour 
by  hour,  she  worked  unceasingly. 

And  yet  Blanche  thought  that  joy  enough  was  left 


NOTRE   DAME  DES  FLOTS.  215 

licr;  and  wlien  she  knelt  in  the  church  of  Notre 
Dame  des  i^/o^s,  beneath  the  image  of  the  Madonna, 
she  could  not  comprehend  why  the  face  of  the  sacred 
image  looked  so  woe-begone ;  for  Our  Lady  held  her 
divine  infant  in  her  arms,  and  the  infant  smiled. 

To  Blanche  the  smile  of  her  own  child  was  every- 
thing; it  was  the  ever  fresh  renewal  of  the  old  dreams 
of  her  youth,  and  the  never-failing  promise  of  their 
ultimate  fulfilment.  Those  dreams  replaced  for  her 
all  that  Arthur  had  promised  her  in  the  first  days  of 
their  life  together  at  Ingouville — jewels  and  Indian 
stuffs;  sumptuous  entertainments,  resonant  with  mu- 
sic and  radiant  with  light;  operas,  plays,  balls,  and 
voyages ;  the  loud  festivities  of  the  world  and  the 
silent  festivals  of  the  heart.  All  this,  and  more — im- 
measurably more  than  all  this — was  to  Blanche  the 
smile  of  her  child. 

When  the  little  girl,  on  awaking  in  the  morning, 
played  with  her  mother's  tresses,  laughingly  hiding 
behind  them  all  but  the  peeping  beam  of  her  blue 
eyes,  the  poor  mother  thought  herself  the  richest 
woman  in  the  world  ;  and  she  began  to  love  her  own 
beautiful  hair,  because  it  was  such  a  dear  daily  plaj-- 
thing  for  her  child. 

When,  as  the  day  went  on,  she  looked  up  now  and 
then  from  her  work  towards  the  child,  or  lifted  her 
upon  her  lap,  and  the  little  girl  threw  her  arms  around 
lier  neck  and  hugged  her,  till  the  child's  curls  and 
the  mother's  became  indistinguishable  from  each 
other  (for  they  were  both  of  the  same  color),  then 
she  thought  herself  the  happiest  woman  in  the  world. 
And  she  took  up  her  needle  again  witli  courage,  and 


216  NOTRE   DAME   DES   FLOTS. 

the  room  was  filled  with  music  sweeter  to  her  than 
any  other,  for  the  child  began  to  chatter  with  Lyon 
in  that  language  which  only  God  and  mothers  un- 
derstand. 

Lyon  was  both  a  big  playfellow  and  a  good  play- 
thinor  which  could  not  be  broken.  lie  let  the  child 
pull  his  shaggy  hair ;  he  opened  his  jaws  wide,  that 
lier  little  hands  might  inquisitively  examine  his  teeth 
and  tongue;  he  let  her  grasp  his  ears  and  feel  his 
nose;  he  touched  cautiously  with  his  paws  her  little 
arm  when  she  wanted  to  play  at  "  catch-catch."  And 
anon  he  was  a  careful  guardian,  solemnly  following 
her  as  she  crawled  about,  like  himself,  on  all  fours. 
If  she  stumbled  in  the  attempt  to  go  alone  on  her 
two  little  legs,  Lyon  was  at  her  side,  that  she  might 
cling  to  his  hair  with  all  her  ten  little  fingers.  And 
finally  he  made  himself  a  soft  cushion  for  the  child, 
on  which,  when  she  was  tired,  she  might  lean  her 
little  head  and  go  to  sleep.  He  did  not  go  to  sleep 
himself,  but  lay  stretched  out  upon  the  floor  without 
once  moving,  while  his  faithful  eyes  twinkled  with 
intelligence  at  Blanche. 

"  Our  little  one  is  asleep,"  they  seemed  to  say. 
"  We  must  make  no  noise." 

But  one  misfortune  brings  another ;  the  loosened 
sand-grain  grows  into  the  rolling  ball,  and  this,  in 
turn,  into  the  devastating  avalanche. 

The  caprice  of  fashion  suddenly  renounced  the  sort 
of  embroidery  that  Blanche  was  able  to  work.  One 
morning  she  was  told  at  the  shop  that  no  more  of  it 
was  wanted.  She  tried  other  shops,  and  got  every- 
where the  same  answer.    When  she  came  home,  tired 


NOTRE   DAME  DES   FLOTS.  217 

of  her  long,  fruitless  walks  about  the  town,  strangers 
were  in  her  house.  In  the  name  of  the  law  they 
claimed  the  scanty  furniture  of  Monsieur  de  Mersay 
as  security  for  a  debt  long  overdue.  Blanche  did 
not  understand  what  it  all  meant ;  and  she  pressed 
her  little  girl  to  her  bosom,  fearing  that  they  would 
take  the  child  from  her  too. 

When  the  strangers  went  away,  Lyon,  who  had 
been  showing  his  teeth,  ready  at  a  sign  from  Blanche 
to  attack  them,  growled  after  them  at  the  door,  and 
then  all  was  still. 

The  child  is  asleep  in  the  mother's  arms.  The 
mother  lays  her  carefully  in  bed,  and  thinks,  "  This 
bed  no  longer  belongs  to  me !"  Then  she  goes  to 
the  table,  which  will  be  sold  in  a  few  days,  and  writes 
to  Arthur  at  Paris.  Then  she  puts  on  her  bonnet, 
and  walks,  with  weary  feet  that  nearly  fail  her  at 
every  step,  back  into  the  town,  and  through  it  to  the 
jeweller's,  where  she  sells  the  little  cross  she  has 
worn  till  now  on  her  breast,  as  her  mother  had  worn 
it  before  her,  and  her  grandmother  before  that.  It 
is  her  last  possession  ! 

Several  days  later,  the  letter  she  had  written  to 
Arthur  returned  to  her  unopened,  with  the  words, 
'■''Parti  pour  V Angleterre^''  written  by  a  strange 
hand  upon  the  cover. 

Then,  at  last,  Blanche  let  sink  her  head  and  hands, 
and  sat  staring  at  the  floor  in  a  stunned,  senseless, 
helpless  lethargy. 

It  was  not  given  to  her,  as  it  is  to  some,  to  grow 
hard  and  strong,  like  a  wind -beaten  tree,  in  the 
stormy  climate  of  a  life  of  struggle.     She  never  out- 


218  NOTRE  DAME  DES  FLOTS. 

wrew  the  shrinking  softness  of  lier  flower-like  nature. 
Her  love  for  her  child  had  indeed  driven  several 
sturdy  little  roots  into  the  hard,  stony  soil  of  her 
life,  but  they  gave  her  no  support  now.  Turn  where 
she  might,  far  as  sight  could  reach  or  thought  wan- 
der, there  was  no  Jielp.  Nothing  before  her  and 
around  her  but  hopeless  desolation  ;  and  into  that 
desolation  she  stared  with  wild,  dry,  reckless  eyes. 

A  low  sobbing  aroused  her. 

The  child  was  sitting  beside  Lj'on  on  the  floor, 
and  looking  at  her  mother.  The  little  girl  knew 
nothing  of  all  this  misery  and  nn'schance,  but  she 
was  frightened  by  the  look  of  the  mother's  face,  and 
began  to  cry,  till  the  whole  of  her  little  face  was 
like  a  rose-bud  drenched  in  rain. 

The  dog  lay  still,  one  arm  of  the  child  about  his 
neck,  and  he,  too,  was  looking  strangely  at  Blanche. 
Like  her,  he  had  eaten  nothing  all  day,  but  he  did 
not  whine. 

Blanche  looked  up.  She  saw  the  eyes  of  the 
child  and  of  the  dog  fixed  upon  her,  and  suddenly 
she  seized  her  head  with  both  her  hands,  and  felt 
she  must  be  going  mad.  For  there,  in  the  corner, 
behind  the  child,  was  hovering,  white  as  death,  a 
shivering  spectre,  thinly  clad  in  tattered  rags,  with 
glassy  eyes,  gaunt  cheeks,  and  bare,  bony  feet;  and 
the  spectre  was  clutching  at  the  child  with  fleshless 
fingers,  as  if  to  snatch  it  away  from  her. 

AVith  a  cry  of  terror,  Blanche  threw  herself  as  a 
shield  over  her  child,  and  stretched  out  her  hands 
above  its  head  in  passionate  expostulation  towards 
this  horrible  apparition.     Then  she  lifted  her  life's 


NOTRE   DAME  DES  FLOTS.  219 

last  treasure  to  her  bosom,  clasped  it  close,  and  rock- 
ed herself  above  it.  This  soothed  her  mind  a  little, 
and  she  burst  at  last  into  a  flood  of  tears,  as  if  she 
could  weep  out  her  whole  soul. 

After  a  while  she  looked  round  the  room  and  out 
of  the  window.  In  the  whole  town  of  Havre  she 
had  not  made  a  single  acquaintance;  for  Arthur,  in 
her  happier  days  with  him,  had  wished  her  not  to 
mix  with  the  local  society,  and  ever  since  she  had 
continued  to  order  her  life  in  accordance  with  her 
remembrance  of  his  wishes.  She  had  not  a  friend 
in  all  the  world,  not  a  human  being  to  whom  she 
could  appeal  for  aid. 

But  One  there  was  on  high  who  had  saved  others 
from  shipwreck — One  who  might  still,  perchance, 
save  her  also.  And  to  the  shrine  where  dwells  Our 
Lady  of  the  Waters,  in  the  little  windy  church  on 
Cap  la  Ileve,  she  went  forth  with  her  child  in  her 
arms. 


CHAPTER  III. 


It  is  a  jour  defete,  and  the  sky  above  keeps  holi- 
day with  the  earth  below;  for  the  sun  is  laughing 
gayly  down  at  the  gayety  of  the  laughing  crowd. 

Blanche  emerges  from  the  gloomy  suburb  into 
the  splendid  Rue  de  Paris.  As  she  catches  sight 
of  herself  in  the  gigantic  plate-glass  mirrors  of  the 
shop -windows,  the  wretched  mother  smooths  with 
trembling  hand  her  child's  threadbare  dress.  Tim- 
idly she  crosses  the  public  garden  in  front  of  the 


220  NOTRE   DAME   DES   FLOTS. 

Hotel  dc  Ville.  Hundreds  of  smartly  dressed  peo- 
ple are  listening  there  to  the  music  of  the  military 
band ;  hundreds  hurry  past  her  joyously,  on  their 
way  to  the  Aquarium  ;  and  farther  up,  along  the  Rue 
deSainte-Adresse,  is  flowing  a  brilliant  stream  of  car- 
riages and  hackney-coaches,  crowded  with  holiday- 
makers.  She  wonders  if  her  child  will  one  day  wan- 
der barefoot  liere. 

On  both  sides  of  her  way  stand  the  luxurious  vil- 
las and  country-houses  of  Sainte-Adresse,  surround- 
ed by  blooming  gardens.  And  again  she  wonders 
where  she  is  to  find  a  bed  for  her  child  when  they 
have  been  turned  out  of  their  lodging  a  few  days 
liencQ. 

Under  the  trees  the  restaurants  resound  with  song, 
and  laughter,  and  merry  chatter,  and  the  clink  of 
glasses.  Below,  along  the  shore,  the  Parisians,  Avho 
have  come  to  Havre  for  the  bathing-season,  arc  fish- 
ing the  oyster-beds  of  Queen  Christina,  and  calling 
and  laughing  to  each  other  over  their  sport.  And 
Blanche  thinks  that  to  -  morrow  her  child  will  be 
starving. 

Now  she  has  climbed  the  heights  of  Cap  la  H6ve. 
The  crowd  disperses  into  groups :  some  gather  round 
the  shooting-booths,  others  about  the  cider-stalls,  and 
some  are  strolling  on  to  the  liorht-house.  Blanche 
enters  the  church,  and  kneels  down  before  the  image 
of  the  sailors'  patroness.  Our  Lady  of  the  Waters. 

She,  too,  is  a  shipwrecked  sailor,  lost  in  life's  wide 
ocean,  without  a  plank  to  cling  to.  Her  lips  can 
form  no  words  of  prayer,  but  her  heart  prays  pas- 
sionately— not  for  herself;  only  for  her  child.     She 


NOTllE   DAME   DES   FLOTS.  221 

lifts  her  little  one  imploringly  up  to  Her  who  has 
also  a  child  in  Her  arms.  But  upon  the  human 
mother  and  her  child  our  dear  Lady  looks  down  so 
wofullj',  and  with  a  face  so  full  of  unutterable  pain, 
that  Blanche  rises  shuddering,  and  turns  away  her 
troubled  looks.  All  around,  upon  the  wall  before 
her,  she  sees  the  names  and  votive  offerings  of  those 
who  have  been  saved.  But  they  who  have  perished  ? 
Blanche  suddenly  thinks,  where  are  their  names  in- 
scribed? and,  were  they  written  here,  would  these 
walls  be  high  enough  to  hold  all  the  inscriptions? 

And  as  she  gazes  up  to  the  roof  with  a  bewil- 
dered eye,  all  the  suffering  that  is  in  store  for  her 
child  gathers  and  heaps  itself  suddenly  before  her. 
She  does  not  merely  feel,  she  sees  it.  The  mass  of 
its  growing  misery  rises  higher  and  higher;  it  rolls 
above  her  head,  which  rests  submerged  beneath  it; 
it  mounts  the  walls,  it  reaches  the  groinings  of  the 
arch,  it  crams  and  bursts  the  vaulted  roof  above. 

Blanche,  with  a  sense  of  suffocation,  groped  her 
way  along  the  wall  to  the  door,  and  went  out,  won- 
dering if  it  had  yet  touched  the  sk3\  There,  outside 
the  church,  she  stood  a  long  while,  gazing  up  into 
heaven ;  and  then,  shaking  her  head  drearil}',  she 
wandered  away  with  the  child  from  the  loud,  many- 
colored  swarm  of  holiday-makers,  to  the  lonely  edge 
of  the  downs  above  the  sea. 

The  cannon  of  the  Coast  Battery  stand  peacefully 
beside  each  other  in  the  grass.  On  the  last  of  the 
row  sits  a  young  wife,  stitching  a  baby-frock,  and 
smiling  sometimes  at  her  little  girl,  who  is  playing 
in  the  grass  beside  her.     Leaning  against  the  wall 


222  NOTRE   DAME  DES  FLOTS. 

of  the  signal-house  stands  the  coast-guard  officer  on 
duty  for  the  day.  His  eyes  blink  in  the  flood  of 
sunshine  from  the  sea ;  but  he  opens  them  now  and 
then  to  steal  a  look  at  his  wife  and  child.  A  couple 
of  swallows  are  darting  about  the  air  in  search  of 
food  for  their  young  ones,  who  thrust  their  broad 
heads  greedily  out  of  their  nest  in  the  signal-tower. 
Above,  in  the  blue,  trills  a  lark.  The  bird  is  out  of 
sight,  but  its  song  sounds  clear  from  the  sk}',  whence 
it  is  sending  messages  of  love  to  its  brooding  mate 
below. 

And  Blanche  looks  far  across  the  sea,  to  where,  be- 
yond the  horizon,  the  English  coast  is  hidden  from 
her  sight.  Suddenly  a  child's  voice  sings  shrill,  out 
of  the  grass  close  by, 

" Malbrooh  e'en  va-t-en  guerre" 

Then  the  song  stops,  and  she  hears  nothing  but 
the  carolling  of  the  lark  and  the  sighing  of  the  sea. 
As  she  lifts  her  eyes,  the  young  father,  thinking 
himself  unobserved,  has  just  stepped  backward  and 
embraced  his  wife  and  child. 

Blanche  turns  and  stares  again  across  the  rolling 
waves,  in  the  direction  of  England.  Iler  nerves  are 
overwrought,  her  strength  is  going,  and  all  around 
lier  reels  and  hovers  in  a  glaring  mist.  With  deliri- 
ous eyes  she  gazes  up  again  into  the  blue  skj',  and, 
with  a  voice  that  startles  the  coast-guard  officer  back 
to  his  post,  cries  out, 

"Is  it  all  empty  up  there,  and  no  one  in  heaven 
or  on  earth  to  save  my  child  ?" 

And  she  listens,  and  stares,  and  listens.  But  the 
radiant  stillness  of  heaven  returns  no  answer  to  her 


NOTRE  DAME   DES  FLOTS.  333 

crj,  and  over  sea  and  land  liangs  fast  the  azure  vault 
in  vast  impenetrable  peace. 

She  drooped  her  head,  her  lips  twitched  and  trem- 
bled. 

"J^o  one  up  there  in  heaven,"  she  muttered,  faint- 
ly, "  and  none  on  earth  to  care  for  my  little  girl ! 
None,"  she  added,  with  a  soft  sob,  "  but  I  alone  !" 

Deeper  and  deeper  drooped  the  mother's  head, 
till  the  child  in  her  arms  was  covered  with  her  gold- 
en tresses. 

Then  a  sudden  thought  struck  her.  What  was  it 
that  the  poor  old  water-carrier  had  once  told  her? 
That  somebody  had  been  asking  whether  the  woman 
with  the  golden  hair  could  not  be  induced  to  sell  it? — 
that  a  rich  gentleman  was  trying  to  buy  hair  of  that 
peculiar  color, and  would  give  a  great  price  for  it? 

Blanche  had  allowed  the  poor  w^oman  to  chatter 
on,  not  wishing  to  hurt  her  feelings,  but  had  paid 
no  attention  to  her  words,  not  understanding  the 
drift  of  them.  The  possibility  of  selling  her  hair 
liad  never  before  occurred  to  her.  Now,  howev- 
er, as  these  salable  golden  tresses  lay  spread  out  be- 
fore her  eyes  in  the  lap  of  her  child,  the  words  of 
the  water-carrier  returned  to  her  recollection  with. 
a  sudden  significance,  swift  and  clear  as  a  flash  of 
lightning. 

She  rose  hastily,  re-entered  the  church,  and  knelt 
once  more  before  the  Madonna,  in  grateful  thanks- 
giving for  that  ray  of  hope.  This  time  she  did  not 
look  up,  but  held  her  eyes  down  and  her  head  bent 
in  self-reproach  at  having  doubted  for  one  moment. 
And  thus  she  could  not  see  that  Our  Lady  of  the 


224  NOTRE   DAME  DES  FLOTS. 

"Waters  was  still  looking  down  at  her,  as  before,  with 
the  same  expression  of  unutterable  woe. 

Blanche  returned  to  the  town  witli  hope  in  her 
heart. 

The  poor  water-carrier  directed  her  next  day  to 
the  lodging  of  the  man  who  had  asked  about  her  hair. 
lie  told  her  he  had  been  for  a  long  time  commis- 
sioned to  find  hair  for  sale  of  that  peculiar  golden 
tint  which  hers  possessed,  but  that  till  now  all  his 
researches  had  been  in  vain.  After  endless  expres- 
sions of  astonishment  and  admiration  at  the  treasure 
she  carried  on  her  head,  he  declared  that  she  must 
present  herself  with  it  to  the  gentleman  who  had 
given  him  the  commission.  This  gentleman  was  the 
wealth}'  banker  and  manufacturer,  Monsieur  Du- 
mont,  who  was  to  be  found  every  afternoon  at  his 
country-seat  at  Ingouvillc. 

Dumont !  That  was  the  name  of  the  purchaser  and 
possessor  of  the  home  of  her  earlier  married  life  at 
Ingouville,  and  of  her  girlhood,  near  Louviers. 

Blanche,  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  continued 
her  way  up  the  steep  road  over  the  cliff  to  Ingou- 
ville. 

She  rang  timidly  at  the  door  of  the  house  in  which 
the  happiest  hours  of  her  life  had  been  passed.  The 
porter  rudely  refused  her  admittance.  She  went 
away  through  the  garden  ;  she  knew  a  little  entrance 
there,  leading  into  the  house  through  the  flower- 
beds, where  she  used  once  to  gather  flowers  for  Ar- 
thur every  morning.  She  found  it  open,  slipped 
through  it,  and  crept  up  the  stairs  she  had  first 
mounted  leaning  on  her  husband's  arm. 


NOTRE   DAME  DES  FLOTS.  225 

How  well  she  remembered  it  all — the  old  house, 
the  old  days,  the  old  feelings  !  Her  heart  was  fit  to 
burst,  and  she  had  not  even  her  child  with  her,  to 
clasp  to  it  and  give  it  courage. 

A  servant  met  her,  and  without  asking  her  name, 
told  her  to  wait  in  the  anteroom. 

"One  of  tiie  factory  lot,"  he  muttered  to  himself 
as  he  left  her  there. 

In  the  adjoining  room,  from  which  she  was  only 
separated  by  a  poi'tiere,  she  heard  the  sound  of  a 
man's  voice  speaking  fast  in  broken  tones  of  ago- 
nized entreaty. 

"Monsieur  Dumont,"  said  the  voice, "  I  have  work- 
ed hard  all  these  years  in  your  factory,  and  now  my 
children  are  starving!" 

"  I  dare  say,"  replied  the  voice  of  the  banker,  calm- 
ly, "  considering  that  you  have  not  done  a  stroke  of 
M'ork  for  eight  weeks." 

"  But  I  have  been  ill,  monsieur,  grievously  ill — ^j'ou 
know  that  very  well !" 

"How  am  I  to  know  it?  and  what  has  this  to  do 
with  the  matter?  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  I  am  the 
cause  of  your  illness  ?" 

"  Monsieur  Dumont !  man  hon  Mojisieur  Dumont ! 
I  do  beseech  and  implore  you, for  pity's  sake,  advance 
me  two  months'  wages,  and  I'll  go  back  to  my  work 
to-morrow." 

"But  what  security  can  you  give  me  that  you'll  be 
able  to  go  on  working  ?  How  can  I  tell  that  you  are 
quite  recovered?  You  don't  look  like  it;  you  may 
fall  ill  again — you  may  die  !" 

"Monsieur,  ray  savings  are  all  gone.  Everything 
15 


336  NOTRE  DAME  DES  FLOTS. 

we  possess  is  sold.  Ah,  monsieur,  for  tlie  love  of 
God,  be  not  so  hard  !  I  have  six  children  !" 

"  I  dare  say.  And  is  that  ray  fault,  too  ?  I  know 
people  who  would  be  glad  to  have  six  children.  I 
tell  you  I  cannot  lend  you  the  money.  I  have  no 
money,  and,  what  is  more,  I  have  no  time  to  waste." 

Blanche  pressed  her  hands  to  her  throbbing  tem- 
ples. She  could  not  have  believed  it  possible  that 
God  had  made  human  hearts  as  hard  as  this.  But 
she  braced  herself  for  the  ordeal,  and  entered  the 
banker's  room  as  the  poor  workman  staggered  out  of 
it.    /She,  at  least,  was  not  come  to  borrow,  but  to  sell. 

The  banker  was  writing. 

"  Who  are  you?"  he  asked,  without  looking  up  from 
his  desk. 

"  I  have  been  told,"  she  replied,  "  that  you  want 
to  buy  hair  of  a  certain  color,  and  I  am  come  to  offer 
you  mine  for  sale."  ' 

Dumont  waited  to  hear  what  the  woman  would  say 
next.  But  she  said  no  more;  so,  turning  carelessly 
in  his  chair,  he  looked  up  at  her.  Suddenly  the  tall, 
strong  figure  of  the  man  was  jerked,  as  by  an  electric 
shock,  and  he  started  to  his  feet  with  a  keen  glance 
at  Blanche. 

"Madam,"  said  he,  "your  hair  is  indeed  beautiful, 
incomparably  beautiful,  and  perhaps  unique.  Will 
a  check  for  two  thousand  francs  satisfy  you  ?  Well, 
I  will  write  it  out  at  once.     Be  so  good — " 

The  banker  paused.  A  strange,  nerv^ous  contrac- 
tion rapidly  crossed  his  brown,  Proven9al  face,  but 
it  quickly  resumed  its  hard  and  cold  expression. 

"Pray  sit  down  !"  he  continued.     "I  think, mad- 


NOTKE  DAME   DES   FLOTS.  227 

am,  that  I  have  already  had  the  pleasure  of  speaking 
with  you  once  before,  thoiigli  only  for  a  moment. 
That  was  enough,  however,  for  the  lasting  recollec- 
tion of  such  features  as  yours.  It  was  in  this  house, 
in  this  very  room,  I  think,  when  I  came  here  about 
the  purchase  of  the  place.  Have  I  not  the  honor 
of  speaking  to  Madame  de  Mersay  ?" 

Blanche  bowed. 

"  I  pity  you,  madam," 

"  Sir,"  said  Blanche,  rising,  "  I  came  here  to  sell 
you  ray  hair." 

"  Pray  have  the  goodness  to  sit  down,  madam,  and 
honor  me  with  your  patience  for  a  moment.  Mon- 
ey-maker as  I  am,  I  am  aware  that  it  does  not  become 
me  to  express  any  opinion  in  reference  to  your  per- 
sonal situation,  even  if  it  be  only  in  the  way  of  sym- 
pathy and  regret.  But  the  pity  I  expressed  just  now 
has  reference  to  matters  which  must  soon  become 
public,  and  which  concern  myself  no  less  than  you, 
madam.  Suffer  me  to  mention  first  so  much  of  them 
as  concerns  myself.  Monsieur  de  Mersay  incurred 
heavy  debts  long  before  the  sale  of  this  property,  and 
he  has  largely  increased  them  since.  I  have  lent  him 
money  without  hesitation,  relying  on  the  security  he 
pledged  me.  That  security  was  his  wife's  fortune. 
Madam,  you  have  just  now  offered  me  the  wonderful 
treasure  bestowed  on  you  by  nature ;  I  trust  that  this 
is  the  only  sacrifice — " 

"Monsieur  Dumont,"  interrupted  Blanche,  proud- 
ly, "  rest  assured  that  your  money  will  be  repaid  you. 
It  is  not  my  husband  who  will  ever  suffer  the  name 
of  De  Mersay  to  be  sullied  by  a  public  prosecution 


238  NOTRE  DAME  DES  FLOTS. 

for  the  recovery  of  a  legitimate  debt.  Whatever  may 
be  the  liabilities  he  has  contracted  towards  you,  he 
will  assuredly  find  the  means  of  discharging  them; 
and  it  is  doubtless  for  this  pui'pose  that  he  has  now 
gone  to  England." 

The  same  nervous  contraction  as  before  overspread 
the  dark  face  of  Dumont.  It  was  a  singular  expres- 
sion, which  his  friends  used  to  call  "  Dumont's  smile." 

"I  know  about  Monsieur  de  Mersay's  journey  to 
England,"  he  replied,  "  and  I  know  very  well  what 
is  the  object  of  it.  In  not  mentioning  that  object  to 
you,  madam,  I  believe  that  I  shall  best  observe  the 
consideration  which  is  due  to  you.  But  if  you  sup- 
pose that  Monsieur  de  Mersay  would  shrink  from  in- 
volving his  name  in  a  comparatively  innocent  civil 
suit,  you  are  —  forgive  me  —  under  a  pious  illusion. 
You  have  a  great  and  a  generous  faith  in  you.  I 
am  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  disturb  it,  but  it  is  in  your 
own  interest." 

Saying  this.  Monsieur  Dnmont  opened  a  drawer 
in  his  writing-table,  and  took  out  of  it  a  bundle  of 
papers.     He  held  them  out  before  Blanche's  eyes. 

"Madam,"  said  he, "these  papers  aver  that  Mon- 
sieur de  Mersay,  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  an  obscure 
ballet-dancer  adorned  with  a  costly  necklace,  has 
soiled  an  ancient  name  by  the  perpetration  of  a  vul- 
gar crime.  These  checks  are  all  forged,  and  I  have 
in  my  possession  not  only  the  proofs  of  the  forgery, 
but  also  the  identification  of  the  forger." 

Blanche  sprang  up,  trembling  all  over. 

"No,  no!"  she  cried,  loudly  ;  "this  is  impossible! 
it  is  a  damnable  calumny !" 


NOTRE   DAME   DES   FLOTS.  229 

"In  a  few  days,"  said  Dumont, coldly,  "the  judg- 
ment of  a  court  of  justice  will,  I  trust,  have  satisfied 
your  own  judgment  that  the  son  of  Provengal  peas- 
ants, who  has  raised  himself  in  the  world  by  honest 
work,  does  not  calumniate  the  offspring  of  Norman 
knightliood  in  calling  Monsieur  de  Mersay  a  swindler 
and  a  forger.  I  have  had  at  heart,  madam,  no  other 
interest  than  your  own  in  thus  placing  you  in  a  posi- 
tion to  take  the  necessary  steps  for  protecting  your- 
self and  your  family,  by  separating  your  destiny  from 
that  of  Monsieur  de  Mersay.  But  in  punishing  this 
man  I  have  a  personal  interest,  and  I  avow  it.  I  hate 
the  aristocracy — even  a  peasant's  son  has  his  antipa- 
thies— and  I  wage  an  inexorable  war  against  aristo- 
crats whenever  and  wherever  I  can.  Against  wom- 
en, however,  I  never  fight,  and  against  j-ou,  madam, 
least  of  all,  for  you  resemble  one  who —  No  matter ! 
Calunmy  has  never  been  my  weapon,  for  I  find 
money  the  all-sufficient  instrument  of  my  purposes. 
Money  !  money  !  money  !  Money  is  power,  money 
is  revenge,  retribution,  justice !  Slowly  and  painful- 
ly have  I  forged  this  mighty  instrument ;  for  long 
laborious  and  penurious  years  scraping  together  sous^ 
as  now  I  sweep  together  millions.  I  have  said  that 
even  a  peasant's  son  has  his  antipathies — ay,  for  even 
a  peasant's  son  has  a  history.  Allow  me,  madam,  to 
tell  you  a  story  which  I  happen  to  know  by  heart. 
It  is  the  story  of  a  young  Provengal  peasant.  I  knew 
liim  years  ago.  He  had  then  a  heart  as  glowing  as 
any  in  Provence.  But  a  fine  aristocratic  young  offi- 
cer, fresh  from  Algiers,  condescended  to  be  at  the 
pains  of  teaching  this  young  fool  that  persons  in  hia 


230  NOTRE   DAME  DES  FLOTS. 

class  liavc  no  riglit  wliatever  to  a  licart.  As  for  me, 
if  at  any  moment  I  grow  weary  of  the  bitter  war  my 
life  is  passed  in  waging,  I  have  only  to  think  of  a 
grave  in  Provence  —  a  grave  beneath  which  lies 
mouldering  the  broken  heart  of  a  young  girl,  be- 
trayed, abandoned,  lost,  ruined,  by  that  fine  young 
aristocrat !  Slie  was  as  beautiful,  madam,  as  you  are 
yourself,  and  like^ — O  God,  how  like  you!  You 
might  have  been  twin-sisters.  She  came  from  a  race 
of  northern  emigrants.  She  had  your  white  fore- 
jiead,  and  the  same  soft  golden  hair  above  it.  AVhen 
I  look  uj)on  your  face,  it  all  seems  to  me  like  a  dream. 
But  forgive  me,  I — forgot  myself!  You  doubtless 
wonder  why  I  presume  to  tell  you  this  story.  Well, 
1  will  be  brief.  I  speak  only  of  facts — the  hardest 
and  the  driest.  It  is  not  for  me  to  speak  to  you  of 
feelings,  and  there  are  some  which  cannot  be  told. 
Have  you  ever  observed,  madam,  in  the  museum  of 
this  town,  among  the  geological  remains  of  antedilu- 
vian epochs,  the  fossilized  flora  of  a  perished  world 
— things  that  were  once  flowers  and  are  now  stones? 
Well,  such  is  the  end  of  my  story;  for  it  is  only  a 
record  of  fossilization — the  story  of  a  heart  turned 
into  stone. 

"And  now,"  said  the  banker,  rising,  and  pointing 
to  the  window,  "look  yonder,  madam.  Do  you  see, 
on  the  horizon,  a  thin  cloud  of  smoke  just  above  the 
sea-line?  That  is  the  English  steamer.  Monsieur  de 
Mersay  has  probably  by  this  time  concluded  his  ne- 
gotiations about  Mademoiselle  Oeillet's  London  en- 
gagement, and  in  two  hours  hence  that  steamer  will 
have  entered  the  port  of  Havre,  where  the  agents  of 


NOTRE   DAME  DES   PLOTS.  231 

the  police  arc  waiting  to  arrest  one  of  her  passengers. 
By-the-way,  I  forgot  to  tell  you,  madam,  that  the 
name  of  the  peasant's  son  was  Diimont,  and  that  of 
the  aristocratic  young  officer,  Arthur  de  Mersay." 

Blanche  sat  stunned  and  speechless,  her  lips  and 
her  whole  face  as  white  as  death.  At  last,  with  a 
shuddering  effort,  she  flung  out  her  hands  towards 
Dumont,  and  clasping  them,  exclaimed, 

"Mercy!  mercy  for  that  unfortunate  man  !" 

"  I  fear,"  said  the  banker,  "  that  you  have  not  quite 
understood  my  little  story." 

"  For  the  sake  of  my  child,"  cried  the  wretched 
woman,  "  mercy  !  pardon  !" 

"Madam,"  he  replied,  "there  was  also  a  child 
in  that  story  of  Provence.  I  forgot  to  mention 
this.  The  child  is  lying  in  the  same  grave  as  its 
mother." 

Blanche  fell  upon  her  knees  before  him. 

"  It  is  not  for  him  that  I  pray,"  she  said, "  nor  yet 
for  me.  I  would  bear  it  willingly  for  him  and  for 
myself.  But  my  poor,  helpless  child — that  she  should 
be  branded  for  a  crime  she  has  not  committed  !  that 
the  chain  on  the  hand  of  the  father  should  eat  into 
the  heart  of  the  daughter!  and  that  her  sinless  steps 
should  be  through  a  world  where  every  one  will 
point  to  her  as  the  offspring  of  a  criminal!  Iler 
smile  killed  forever!  her  life  blighted  before  it  be- 
gins! her  dear,  frank  eyes  forbidden  to  look  up  into 
any  human  face  without  shame  and  fear !  Ah !  Mon- 
sieur Dumont,  you  will  not  thus  condenm  the  inno- 
cent? The  child  has  never  wronged  you,  sir.  You 
have  not  seen  her — have  not  seen  her  smile;  you  do 


382  NOTRE  DAME  DES  FLOTS. 

not  know,  you  cannot  tell ;  ah,  if  yon  could  only  see 
licr  smile,  you  would  not  be  so  hard  !" 

She  crept  nearer  to  him  and  took  his  hand. 

"Monsieur  Dumont!  Monsieur  Dumont!  let  me 
bring  my  little  girl  to  you  !  Only  wait  till  you  have 
seen  her.  She  has  such  beautiful  hair!  It  is  the 
color  that  you  like — the  same  golden  color,  only  so 
much  more  beautiful ;  and  her  smile,  and  her  voice 
— ah,  if  you  could  hear  her  voice !" 

Dumont  looked  down  at  Blanche  as  she  knelt  at 
his  feet;  and  wasted  and  stricken  as  she  was — wast- 
ed with  the  long  vigil  of  a  hopeless  grief,  and  strick- 
en with  a  mortal  pang — never  had  she  looked  more 
beautiful.  Even  then,  in  the  agony  of  that  moment, 
she  could  not  speak  of  her  child  without  a  celestial 
smile  that  suffused  her  whole  face.  As  he  watched 
it  shining  through  her  tears,  he  thought  again  of  the 
lonely  grave  far  away  in  Provence,  and  the  dead 
girl  whom  the  living  woman  so  strangely  resembled, 
and  how  she,  too,  had  smiled  just  so,  through  all  her 
misery  and  shame  while  her  child  still  lived.  He 
thought  of  all  this;  and  in  the  vision  on  which  he 
gazed  without  speaking,  past  and  present  were  inex- 
tricably mingled.  The  fair  white  brow,  the  golden 
hair  above  it,  the  beauty  and  the  anguish — all  the 
same  as  of  old,  a  re-enacted  tragedy  ! 

Dumont  snatched  away  the  hand  which  Blanche 
was  desperately  clasping.  He  turned  from  her 
roughl}',  tore  the  forged  checks  to  pieces,  thrust  the 
fragments  into  her  hand,  and  exclaimed  in  a  hoarse 
voice, 

"  Now  go,  madam !     Leave  me !" 


NOTRE   DAME   DES  FLOTS.  233 

Bat  Blanche  seized  his  hand  once  more,  and  cov- 
ered it  with  tears  and  kisses. 

"  Monsieur  Diimont,"  slie  said,  "  my  child  will  live 
to  requite  you,  and  God  in  heaven  will  reward  you 
too.  But  I  cannot  go  yet.  My  child  owes  to  you  her 
rescue  from  starvation  to-morrow,  and  from  shame 
forever.  And  I  owe  to  you  yet  more — and  this  is  all 
I  have  to  give!" 

She  I'ose  from  her  knees  and  loosened  her  hair. 
It  rolled  down  over  her  neck  and  breast,  down  over 
her  whole  figure,  like  a  golden  raiment,  thick,  soft, 
and  glossy  as  silk. 

Dumont  sprang  to  her  side. 

"The  check  wrs  for  your  child,"  he  cried.  "I  no 
longer  want  your  hair.  Don't !  don't !  I  couldn't 
bear  it !" 

He  was  about  to  seize  her  hand,  but  something 
threw  itself  between  them  both ;  for  Lyon,  who 
had  followed  Blanche  unperceived,  sprang  upon  Du- 
mont. The  banker  seized  the  dog  by  the  throat, 
dragged  him  to  the  door,  and  flung  him  out  of  the 
room.  But  before  he  could  prevent  her,  Blanche 
liad  cut  her  hair  short  to  the  roots.  When  he  re- 
joined her,  it  lay  across  the  whole  table,  which  it 
covered  entirely,  Iianging  over  the  edge,  down  to  the 
carpet. 

"Monsieur  Dumont,"  saidBlanche, "  my  child  shall 
learn  to  pray  for  ^'ou  with  me.  You  have  prolonged 
her  life  by  buying  my  hair.  How  I  can  ever  suffi- 
ciently thank  you,"  she  added,  in  a  faltering  voice,  as 
she  looked  at  the  forged  checks,  "  for  thus  sparing 
my  husband,  I  know  not.     It  is  so  little  that  I  can 


234  NOTRE  DAME  DES  FLOTS. 

do,  however  much  I  long  to  do !  But  if,  with  these 
liauds,  I  could  dig  out  of  the  grave  the  woman  you 
loved,  restore  her  to  you  alive,  and  lay  myself  down 
instead  of  her  where  now  she  lies,  I  would  do  it 
with  all  my  heart !" 

Into  the  eyes  and  features  of  Dumont  came  a  sud- 
den glow. 

"  Madam,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand,  "you  could — " 

But  there  he  stopped ;  and  flinging  her  hand  vio- 
lently from  him,  he  turned  away  with  a  fierce  cry, 

"  Go,  go !     For  God's  sake,  leave  me !" 

And  she  went. 

The  evenino:  breeze  came  sifichino:  from  the  sea, 
and  as  it  wandered  through  the  trees  they  shuddered 
and  shook  down  their  leaves  upon  the  woman  who 
was  hastening  along  the  garden.  She,  too,  shivered 
in  the  breeze  from  the  sea,  and  tightened  the  poor 
kerchief  she  had  tied  about  her  cropped  head.  Her 
look  was  turned  to  the  sea,  where  the  smoke-cloud 
of  a  steamer,  nearing  the  coast,  waved  over  the  blue 
sky  like  a  long  gray  ribbon,  and  her  hand  pressed 
convulsively  a  little  parcel  of  torn  papers. 

At  the  same  moment,  watching  from  the  balcony 
of  the  house  she  had  just  left,  stood  a  man  who  knew 
not  what  to  do.  Should  he  rush  after  that  woman, 
clasp  her  to  his  breast,  and  carry  her  back  in  his 
arms?  or  should  he  seize  his  revolver  and  shoot  her 
dead  while  she  is  still  within  reach  ? 


NOTRE  DAME  DE3  FLOTS.  285 


CHAPTER  IV. 

As  Blanche  descended  tlie  steep  road  from  Ingon- 
ville,  she  often  stopped,  trembling  from  head  to  foot, 
and  leaned  for  support  against  the  walls  through 
which  it  wound.  For  she  could  not  help  looking 
now  and  then  at  the  papers  she  held  in  her  hand, 
and  the  sight  of  them  made  her  faint  and  sick.  On 
her  way  through  the  town  she  changed  her  check 
and  bought  some  food.  When  she  reached  her  poor 
lodging,  the  old  water-carrier,  who  had  staj^ed  to 
look  after  the  child  during  her  absence,  was  scared 
by  the  ghastly  change  in  her  appearance;  but  being 
assured  by  Blanche  that  there  was  nothing  the  mat- 
ter with  her,  she  went  away,  shaking  her  head. 

The  child  was  asleep,  and  smiled  in  her  slumber. 
The  sio;ht  of  the  child's  smile  brifjhtened  the  moth- 
er's  face,  as  when  the  light  of  a  candle  shines  on  the 
face  of  a  corpse. 

"  They  will  not  kill  my  darling's  smile,"  she  said 
to  herself,  and  knelt  down  at  the  bedside,  with  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  face  of  the  sleeping  child  till  all 
was  dark.  Then  she  lighted  a  candle,  and  continued 
her  gloating,  doting  watch  over  that  rescued  treas- 
ure. About  midnight  Lyon  crept  close  to  her,  put 
his  head  on  her  arm,  and  looked  np  into  her  face, 
with  eyes  that  said  plainly,  '•  It  is  time  for  us  to  go 


236  NOTRE  DAME  DES  FLOTS. 

to  sleep."  But  Blanclie  remained  in  the  same  atti- 
tude all  night,  never  once  closing  her  eyes. 

When  morning  came,  and  the  sun  shone  into  the 
room,  the  child  awoke,  and  looked  at  her  mother 
with  a  puzzled,  dissatisfied  face.  She  plucked  at  the 
unfamiliar  kerchief  which  the  poor  mother  had  tied 
about  her  shorn  head,  and  not  finding  underneath  it 
her  customary  plaything — the  lost  locks — began  to 
cry.  Lyon  heard  the  child  crying,  and  sprang  upon 
the  bed.  lie  had  long,  crisp  hair,  and  the  cliild 
thrust  all  her  little  fingers  into  it,  laughed  through 
her  tears,  and  thought  no  more  of  the  pale  woman 
w'itli  the  cropped  head,  who  retreated  humbly,  and 
yielded  her  place  to  the  dog. 

It  was  enough  for  her  that  her  child  was  laughing 
again. 

Just  about  the  same  hour.  Monsieur  Dumont  was 
being  admitted  to  tlie  apartment  of  Mademoiselle 
Julie  Oeillet.  He  had  arrived  in  Paris  by  the  night 
train  from  Havre,  and  a  servant  carried  after  him  a 
large  bandbox.  The  danseuse  was  not  yet  out  of 
bed,  and  the  banker  waited  in  the  boudoir  till  she 
joined  him  there  in  a  most  i&&cm2Limg peignoir. 

"You  are  a  wicked  man, Monsieur  Dumont," said 
Julie,  pouting,  '•  to  break  in  upon  people's  rest  at 
this  unnatural  hour  of  the  morning.  It  is  robbing 
and  murdering  sleep." 

"Mademoiselle  Oeillet,"  replied  Dumont, "  for  your 
sake  I  have  just  passed  a  whole  night  in  the  train 
without  sleeping  at  all." 

"  And  for  aught  I  care,"  said  the  lady,  "you  might 
as  well  have  passed  it  comfortably  in  your  bed  ;  nor 


IsOTRE   DAME   DES  FLOTS.  237 

did  I  get  lip  for  your  sake,  but  for  that  of  tlie  big 
bandbox  in  whose  company  my  maid  tells  me  you 
liave  arrived." 

"  Well,  guess  what  is  in  it?" 

"An  infant  elephant, to  judge  by  its  size." 

"  No ;  guess  again." 

"Monsieur  Dumont,  I  have  not  yet  breakfasted, 
and  am  in  no  humor  to  guess  riddles." 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  the  banker,  "you  have  often 
had  the  goodness  to  inform  me  that  till  now  the  su- 
preme longing  of  your  life  has  been  for  a  peruke 
of  a  particular  indescribable  color,  only  seen  in  your 
dreams — a  color  indispensable  to  your  satisfactory 
appearance  in  the  part  of  a  wood-nj^mph.  You  have 
everywhere  sought  for  hair  of  this  ideal  color,  as  if 
the  happiness  of  j'our  existence  depended  upon  it, 
and  you  have  repeatedly  assured  me  that  you  would 
grudge  no  price  for  it.  But  hitherto  you  have  been 
unable  to  find  it.  Well,  will  you  now  be  so  good  as 
to  look  into  that  bandbox  ?" 

The  dancer  lifted  herself  in  the  correct  conven- 
tional attitude  on  the  tips  of  her  toes,  and  cautiously 
dipped  her  nose  over  the  side  of  the  bandbox.  But 
the  next  moment  she  plunged  both  her  hands  into 
it,  and  was  laughing  and  crying  with  frantic  delight. 
Then  she  sprang  up,  whisked  and  bounded  about  the 
room,  lifted  the  bandbox,  put  it  down  again,  danced 
round  it,  and,  as  she  passed  the  banker,  seized  his 
arm  and  exclaimed, 

'■'Bon  !  I  keep  my  promise.  No  price  is  too  high 
for  me!  How  many  kisses  will  you  have  for  it, 
black   Dumont?    When?    where?   how?     Shall   I 


238  NOTRE  DAME  DES  FLOTS. 

dance  before  you  for  fifteen  minutes  and  tlien  em- 
brace you,  mon petit  Dumont !  or  what  else  ?  Quick ! 
your  price  V 

"  Ten  thousand  thanks,  mademoiselle.  But  my 
price  is  not  nearly  so  high  as  all  that.  You  will 
merely  cease  to  receive  Monsieur  de  Mcrsay." 

*'7^^  me  fais  jpitie^  mon  OtellonP^  laughed  the 
danseiise. 

"Pardon  me,"  replied  the  banker,  "it  is  you,  made- 
moiselle, who  are  to  be  pitied,  if  you  do  not  follow 
my  advice.  In  the  first  place,  it  is  the  only  price  at 
which  the  bandbox  is  for  sale.  In  the  next  place,  I 
have  called  this  morning  to  inform  you  that  Mersay 
is  completely  ruined.  Is  it  your  intention  to  under- 
take a  course  of  performances  for  his  benefit?" 

'■^Vous  vous  emportez,  Tnonsieur !  I  am  in  love 
with  Monsieur  de  Mersay." 

"  Indeed  ?  What  a  pity !  and  you  don't  believe  me  ? 
"Well,  then,  I  have  further  the  honor  to  inform  yon, 
mademoiselle,  that  yesterday  the  hair  in  that  band- 
box was  growing  on  the  head  of  Madame  de  Mersay, 
and  that  she  has  just  parted  with  it  to  save  herself 
and  her  child  from  starvation.  You  see,  then,  that 
this  poor  lady's  husband  is  really  and  truly  a  beg- 
gar." 

The  dancer  turned  and  dived  once  more  deep  into 
the  bandbox.  She  thought  that  she  herself  would 
rather  have  died  of  liunger  than  part  with  such  an 
adornment.  Mersay  was  a  handsome  man ;  Mersay 
was  her  devoted  slave  ;  but  as  she  looked  at  the  hair 
she  believed  that  Dumont  must  have  told  her  the 
truth.    Mersay  was  charming,  but  lie  was  ruined ; 


NOTRE  DAME  DES  FLOTS.  239 

and  her  eye  wandered  to  the  millionaire.  She  rang 
the  bell. 

"Another  plate!  Monsieur  Dnmont  breakfasts 
with  ine." 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  the  banker,  "this  fair  hair 
will  become  your  mourning  for  Monsieur  de  Mersay 
to  perfection.  Are  twenty  thousand  francs  enough 
for  the  mourning?  .  .  .  AVell,  you  have  only  to  ap- 
ply for  it  quarterly  at  my  counting-house.  The 
amount  of  the  first  quarter  lies  already  under  the 
plate  you  have  had  the  amiability  to  order  for  me, 
but  of  which  I  regret  to  say  I  cannot  avail  myself, 
as  I  must  get  back  to  Havre  immediately." 

When  Arthur  de  Mersay  returned  to  Paris  with 
the  London  contracts,  and  humbly  rang  at  the  door 
of  the  danseuse,  he  was  informed  that  Mademoiselle 
Oeillet  was  no  longer  living  there.  lie  hastened  to 
her  new  house,  a  little  luxurious  hotel,  and  was  re- 
fused admittance.  He  came  again  the  same  even- 
ing and  got  the  same  answer.  After  repeated  visits, 
all  equally  in  vain,  the  porter  told  him  that  made- 
moiselle had  given  the  strictest  orders  not  to  admit 
Monsieur  de  Mersay  under  any  pretext  whatever,  as 
she  did  not  wish  to  see  him  any  more.  His  master, 
whom  he  named — a  certain  foreign  nobleman  well- 
known  for  his  immense  fortune  and  dissolute  life — 
had  placed  the  hotel,  the  servants,  and  himself  at 
the  disposal  of  mademoiselle,  whose  orders  he  was 
intrusted  to  obey. 

All  De  Mersay's  entreaties  were  in  vain,  and  his 
letters  were  returned  unopened. 

Then  Arthur  went  back  to  Havre.     Pale  as  death, 


240  NOTRE  DAME  DES  FLOTS. 

he  entered  his  wife's  wretched  little  liome.  He 
never  once  looked  at  her,  and  therefore  lie  did  not 
notice  how  sliyly  Bhmclie  shrank  from  the  light,  nor 
wliy  she  wore  that  tight-fitting  cap,  from  which  not 
a  tress  of  hair  escaped.  Nor  did  he  touch  the  food 
she  put  before  him.  For  some  time  he  sat  still,  in  a 
gloomy  reverie,  without  speaking,  and  whenever  the 
child  or  the  dog  approached  liim,  he  pushed  them 
away  fiercely.  Then  he  called  for  pen  and  paper, 
and  began  to  write. 

Blanche  left  the  room  for  a  moment  to  fetch  a 
glass  of  water.  Suddenly  she  heard  the  report  of  a 
lire-arra,  and  rushed  back.  Arthur  sat  leaning  back 
in  his  chair,  a  dead  man.  A  revolver  lay  near  him 
on  the  ground,  a  letter  was  open  before  him  on  the 
table.  It  was  addressed  to  Mademoiselle  Julie  Oeil- 
let,  and  contained  only  these  words — 

"  Unable  to  live  without  thee,  I  die. — Arthur." 

They  were  the  very  words  with  which,  in  the  days 
of  her  courtship,  he  had  once  threatened  Blanche  if 
she  would  not  accept  him  ! 

Why  he  came  from  Paris  to  write  this  letter,  and 
kill  himself  under  the  eyes  of  his  wife,  remained  a 
mystery.  But  Blanche,  when  all  was  over,  sent  the 
letter  to  its  address. 

Mademoiselle  Oeillet  answered — not  by  letter,  but 
by  a  large  bandbox,  addressed  to  Blanche. 

This  woman,  who  every  time  before  going  on  the 
stage  used  to  cross  and  sprinkle  herself  with  holy 
water,  was  afraid  that  misfortune  might  befall  her  if 
she  performed  in  that  blond  wig.     For  the  whole 


NOTRE   DAME  DES   FLOTS.  241 

afternoon  of  tlie  day  on  which  slie  received  De  Mer- 
say's  posthumous  letter,  she  had  a  bad  headache ! 

BLanche  made  up  the  hair,  which  thus  came  back 
to  her,  into  a  votive  offering  to  Notre  Dame  des 
FloU. 

Some  time  after  Arthur's  death  she  received  a  let- 
ter from  Dumont  asking  her  to  become  his  wife. 

"  You  know  not,"  said  the  letter,  "  what  it  is  to 
have  carried  in  one's  breast  for  years  and  years 
nothing  but  a  stone,  and  then  suddenly  to  feel  again 
a  heart  there  !  I  love  you  devotedly,  as  I  once  loved 
her  whom  you  resemble.  All  of  me  that  is  not 
buried  in  her  grave — all  of  me  that  unconsciously, 
to  myself,  has  survived  the  petrifying  process  of  the 
long,  miserable  years  since  then — all  this  belongs  to 
you,  and  is  irrevocably  yours." 

Blanche  replied  that  her  resemblance  to  the  dead 
girl  would  soon  be  complete,  for  she  knew  she  had 
not  long  to  live.  "Even  if  I  had  two  hearts,"  she 
said,  "  instead  of  the  one  that  is  already  dying  away, 
you  have  merited  a  better  lot  than  to  weep  over  two 
graves." 

And  after  that  Blanche  heard  no  more  of  Dumont. 

Suddenly,  however,  she  was  overwhelmed  with 
commissions  for  light  embroideries,  for  which  high 
prices  were  spontaneously  offered.  One  day  she  re- 
ceived from  a  solicitor  at  Paris,  whose  name  was  un- 
known to  her,  a  considerable  sum  of  money,  which 
the  solicitor's  letter  declared  to  be  the  residue  of  her 
dowry,  after  payment  of  all  Monsieur  de  Mersay's 
debts. 

It  was  as  if  a  careful  eye  kept  watch  over  her  at 
IG 


243  NOTRE  DAME  DES  FLOTS. 

every  step,  and  Blanche  thons^lit  it  was  tlie  eye  of 
Heaven,  which,  deh'ghting  in  her  child,  had  care  of 
the  little  one's  future. 

For  herself  she  wanted  nothing;  and  if  the  child, 
leaning  on  her  bosom,  had  not  often  wondcringly 
said  to  her,  ^'■Maman,  what  is  it  that  beats  so  here  in 
your  breast?"  she  would  have  believed  that  her  heart 
was  standing  quite  still. 

Slowly  she  faded  away. 

Only  in  response  to  the  merry  laughter  of  her  lit- 
tle girl  did  there  ever  come  a  wan  gleam  into  the 
weary  eyes,  and  a  faint  smile  to  the  pale  lips,  and  a 
soft  glow  upon  the  faded  cheek.  They  were  the  dying 
signals  of  a  fearful  joy ;  for  terrible,  indeed,  was  the 
hourly  conflict  between  the  body  of  the  woman,  pin- 
ing for  rest  in  the  grave,  and  the  heart  of  the  mother 
willing  to  live  on  for  her  child's  sake. 

But  Blanche's  hair  never  grew  long  again.  And 
when  she  breathed  her  last,  smiling  still  because  her 
child  was  smiling,  it  was  only  little  short  golden 
locks  that  curled  over  the  fair  dead  forehead. 

The  child  smiled,  even  when  the  mother  was  ly- 
ing in  her  coffin,  and  played  merrily  with  the  flowers 
which  a  stranger  had  brought  and  strewn  over  the 
dead. 

This  stranger  was  a  man  with  a  dark  brown  face 
and  deep  mournful  eyes.  He  stood  for  hours  look- 
ing in  silence  at  the  dead,  before  the  coffin  was  tak- 
en away;  and  afterwards  he  was  also  present  when 
it  was  lowered  into  the  grave. 

The  child,  still  smiling,  did  as  she  saw  the  others 
do,  and  threw  down  upon  the  coffin  a  little  clod  of 


NOTRE  DAME  DES  FLOTS.  243 

earth  which  the  stranger  had  put  into  her  hand. 
Then  the  man  took  that  little  hand  in  his,  and  led 
the  child  away  to  a  carriage  which  waited  at  the  gate 
of  the  chnrch-,yard.  She  clapped  her  hands  and 
shouted  with  pleasure  when  the  horses  started  off  at 
a  brisk  pace;  but  suddenly  she  remembered  Lyon, 
who  had  remained  in  the  church-yard,  and  she  be- 
gan to  call  for  him,  and  to  cry  so  loud  that  the 
strange  gentleman  ordered  the  coachman  to  drive 
back. 

Lyon  was  lying  on  the  grave,  and  moaning.  They 
could  not  get  him  away.  The  stranger  told  the 
sexton  to  employ  some  workmen  to  remove  the  dog 
by  force,  if  necessary,  and  bring  him  to  Ligouville. 
This  they  did ;  but  the  dog,  as  soon  as  he  was  free, 
sprang  from  the  balcony  into  the  garden,  and  rushed 
back  to  the  grave,  from  which  he  could  not  again 
be  removed.     And  there  at  last  he  died. 

The  child,  as  she  grew  older,  was  sent  for  a  short 
while  to  a  well-known  boarding-school  at  Paris,  where 
she  was  educated  at  the  expense  of  her  adopted 
father.  Monsieur  Dumont.  He  was  kept  duly  in- 
formed of  all  that  concerned  his  little  ward,  but  he 
himself  never  went  to  Paris.  lie  had  sold  all  his 
estates,  and  gone  to  live  again  in  his  native  village 
in  Provence.  Later  on,  Sinother  pe7ision  was  found 
for  the  completion  of  the  education  of  this  young 
lady,  who,  while  there,  received  news  of  the  sud- 
den death  of  Monsieur  Dumont,  and  the  announce- 
ment that,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  legacies,  he 
liad  bequeathed  to  her  the  whole  of  his  immense 
fortune. 


244  NOTRE  DAME  DES  FLOTS. 

The  rich  heiress  was  soon  surrounded  by  suitors. 
Her  beauty  attracted  all  eyes,  and  her  name  opened 
to  her  all  doors  in  the  best  circles  of  French  society. 
About  her  millions  and  her  parentage  the  gossip  of 
Paris  created  a  whole  cycle  of  romantic  legends; 
according  to  which  her  father  had  shot  himself,  in 
consequence  of  the  heartless  frivolity  of  his  wife, 
whom  he  passionately  loved.  Every  one  lamented 
the  tragic  and  untimely  death  of  that  intelligent 
and  handsome  young  man,  who,  but  for  his  wife's 
misconduct,  might  have  had  such  a  splendid  fut- 
ure. 

This  is  what  Mademoiselle  de  Mersay  heard  on  all 
sides  about  her  parentage.  She  could  neither  contra- 
dict nor  corroborate  the  tale,  for  she  had  not  the  least 
recollection  of  her  early  childhood.  But  it  made 
her  often  think  sadly  and  tenderly  of  her  poor,  dear 
father. 

At  this  moment  she  is  the  finest,  as  well  as  the 
fairest,  of  all  the  fine  ladies  in  Paris;  where  the 
whole  world  is  lost  in  admiration  of  her  beauty,  her 
taste,  her  extravagance,  and  above  all,  the  magnifi- 
cent abundance  of  her  glorious,  unique,  indescribable 
corn-colored  hair.  She  is  never  so  enchanting — all 
the  world  asserts — as  when  she  smiles ;  for  her  smile 
has  in  it  something  wonderfully  sweet  and  soft.  But 
nobody  knows,  and  least  of  all  herself,  what  a  price 
this  smile  has  cost.  The  only  human  being  who 
knew  this  is  no  more;  but  even  she  could  not  have 
told  the  cost  of  this  smile,  for  in  her  opinion  no 
price  was  too  dear  for  it. 

And  the  smile  is  not  for  her — the  dead,  forgotten 


NOTKE  DAME   DES  FLOTS.  245 

mother!  She  does  not  see  it.  She  is  sleeping  some- 
M'here  in  the  church-yard  at  Havre,  but  no  one  ex- 
actly knows  where. 

Many  a  year  has  passed  away  since  the  death  of 
Dumontj  who  put  no  stone  upon  that  woman's  grave, 
but  only  planted  roses  round  it,  like  those  which, 
years  before,  he  had  planted  round  another  grave  in 
the  village  church-yard  of  Provence.  And  as  since 
Dumont's  death  no  one  has  looked  after  this  name- 
less grave,  it  is  now  quite  indistinguishable. 

Perhaps  the  dead  woman's  daughter  trod  smiling 
over  it,  when,  upon  her  wedding-tour,  she  stopped 
at  Havre  to  give  orders  about  the  magnificent  mar- 
ble monument  she  has  erected  there  to  the  memory 
of  her  father. 

It  happened  that  on  that  occasion  she  strolled  into 
the  little  church  of  Notre,  Dame  des  jFlots,  and  saw 
there,  hanging  on  the  wall,  in  their  poor  black  wood- 
en frame,  among  the  votive  tablets  offered  to  Our 
Lady  of  the  Waters,  some  wonderful  tresses  of  hair, 
in  color  and  abundance  exactly  like  her  own.  She 
looked  at  them  with  surprise  and  curiosity,  and  a 
strange,  uncomfortable  feeling  came  across  her  as 
she  wondered  who  could  have  been  the  woman  to 
whom  tliose  tresses  once  belonged,  and  what  could 
have  induced  that  woman  to  sacrifice  such  a  splen- 
did gift  of  nature.  Nervously  she  lifted  her  hand 
to  her  own  beautiful  head,  and  hastened  out  of  the 
church,  whlcli  all  at  once  appeared  to  her  dismal  and 
liaunted.  Her  husband,  and  the  friends  who  accom- 
panied them,  joked  and  rallied  her  a  good  deal  about 
this  odd  little  fit  of  superstitious  sentiment;  but  she 


246  NOTllE  DAME  DES  FLOTS. 

could  not  smile  any  more  that  day,  thongli  she  knew 
not  why. 

The  wooden  frame  has  since  become  stained  and 
broken,  the  paint  has  peeled  off  it,  the  glass  is  loos- 
ened, the  dust  has  got  thick  behind  it ;  and  the  last 
time  I  stood  in  the  little  church,  the  hair  itself  had 
begun  to  fade.  Soon  this  offering  will  be  removed 
to  make  way  for  others.  The  walls  of  the  little 
church  are  not  spacious  enough  to  record  the  sorrows 
and  sufferings  of  every  mourner,  as  the  endless  gen- 
erations go  and  come. 

And  this  is  the  end  of  one  poor  heart's  romantic 
dream — a  mournful  end !  Bat  to  how  few  of  our 
dearest  dreams  does  this  world  vouchsafe  a  joyful 
fulfilment !  Not  all  can  end  unhurt  and  happy  ;  and 
least  of  all  tliose  who  have  a  tender  heart  and  a  dis- 
position to  sacrifice  themselves  for  others. 

Therefore  is  it,  that  from  her  high  and  lonely 
shrine  in  the  little  church  upon  the  windy  cliff, 
where  the  great  sea  waves  came  rolling  and  moaning 
from  the  north  round  Cap  la  Hi^ve,  Our  Lady  of  the 
Waters  looks  down  on  all  below  with  a  face  so  sad, 
so  unutterably  sad ! 


A  JOURNEY  TO  THE 

GKOSSGLOCKNER  MOUNTAIN. 


A  JOURNEY  TO  THE 

GROSSaLOCKNEE  MOUNTAIN. 


A  PERFUME,  faint  and  fleeting,  that  is  gone  as  soon 
as  come,  sometimes  conjures  into  motion,  wave  upon 
wave  within  us,  a  sudden  sea  of  reminiscences. 

To  some  it  comes  on  the  breath  of  a  rose-bud,  or  a 
whiff  of  woodland  air;  to  others,  in  the  scent  of  the 
pine-log  burning  on  a  cottage  hearth,  or  the  fragrance 
of  a  goblet  of  noble  wine  :  for  each  the  magic  incense 
has  a  different  savor,  but  to  all  alike  it  comes  as  the 
coming  of  the  spring,  that  wakes  to  life  a  whole  dead 
world.  Faded  pictures  glow  again  in  all  their  pris- 
tine colors ;  weary  eyes,  long  closed,  reopen ;  lips, 
long  silent,  begin  to  speak ;  dear  ones,  long  forgot- 
ten, wander  as  of  old  beside  us ;  we  see  them,  we 
hear  them,  we  feel  the  soothing  pressure  of  their 
liands  in  ours;  and  the  dead  are  alive  once  more. 

This  is  a  sensation  I  invariably  experience  when- 
ever, in  after-dinner  musings,  I  happen  to  scent  upon 
the  air  the  aroma  of  Syrian  tobacco.  For  then  it 
seems  to  me  as  if  my  old  friend  Radenburg  were 
still  sitting  in  the  corner  near  me,  silently  smoking 
his  chihouqiie,  or  rousing  himself  out  of  a  reverie  to 
answer  some  intrusive  question  of  mine. 


250  A  JOUKNEY  TO 

How  distinctly  do  I  see  again  the  tall  figure  of 
the  man,  and  his  sunburnt  face!  A  man  at  the 
prime  of  life,  just  thirty  years  of  age,  but  having  in 
his  features  and  his  manners  the  quiet  gravity  of  a 
man  much  older.  And  even  a  ghostly  fragment  of 
the  man's  life  comes  floating  to  me  on  those  soft 
gray  fumes  that  unfold  themselves  like  the  faded 
pages  of  some  hoary  volume,  inscribed  with  the  rec- 
ord of  long  past  events. 

Radenburg  moved  through  life  so  unobtrusively 
that,  by  his  fellow-travellers  along  its  crowded  thor- 
oughfare, he  was  but  little  noticed.  He  never  put 
himself  forward.  He  had  no  hankering  after  a  min- 
isterial portfolio  or  an  academic  chair,  nor  even  any 
care  to  increase  his  private  means.  It  was  not  from 
lack  of  ability,  however.  In  the  scientific  world  his 
attainments  as  a  naturalist  were  well  known  and 
liighly  esteemed.  Not  a  few  of  his  contemporaries 
in  that  department  of  science  had  privately  benefited 
by  his  researches ;  but  the  results  of  those  researches 
he  had  no  inclination  to  publish  in  any  form  ;  and 
the  Chair  of  Natural  History,  to  which  he  had  been 
called  at  an  unusually  early  age,  he  quitted  shortly 
afterwards,  to  join  an  expedition  to  Africa.  He  did 
not  resume  it  on  his  return,  but  continued  his  studies 
only  for  the  silent  satisfaction  of  his  own  mind,  and 
with  unselfish  benefit  to  all  who  applied  to  him  for 
information  or  advice.  On  the  whole,  he  lived  a  life 
of  noble,  though  quiet  activit}',  in  the  unostentatious 
pursuit  and  enjoyment  of  what  is  good  and  beau- 
tiful. 

In  society  his  position  was  that  of  an  agreeable  and 


THE  GROSSGLOCKNER  MOUNTAIN.  351 

clever  man,  whom  everybody  welcomed  as  a  guest, 
but  whom  nobody  ever  thought  of  as  a  promising 
subject  for  matrimonial  projects;  although,  in  age, 
disposition,  and  person,  he  seemed  just  the  sort  of 
man  to  make  any  woman  happy.  One  after  another, 
the  wiliest  mothers  of  marriageable  daughters  had 
been  obliged  to  give  him  up  as  a  bad  job,  baffled  by 
liis  passionless  good-humor,  and  the  imdistinguishing 
amiability  of  his  behavior,  whether  to  3'oung  ladies 
or  married  women ;  for  botli  maidens  and  matrons 
had  attempted  his  capture  with  the  same  disappoint- 
ing result.  To  all  alike  he  was  equally  attentive,  and 
equally  indifferent. 

This  equable  placidity,  which  became  him  exceed- 
ingly well — for  it  was  in  complete  harmony  with  all 
the  rest  of  the  man — would  certainly  have  seemed 
to  any  observer  of  his  own  sex  only  the  normal  con- 
dition of  the  man's  natural  temperament.  But  the 
women  ascribed  it  rather  to  the  e£fect  of  some  ex- 
ternal chill  than  to  a  natural  deficiency  of  internal 
warmth ;  and  with  tlieir  fine  instinct  in  matters  of 
sentiment,  they  observed  that  my  friend's  invariable 
amiability  was  but  a  superficial  gleam  of  winter  sun- 
shine, and  that  the  mark  on  the  thermometer  beyond 
which  his  temperature  never  rose,  and  rarely  sunk, 
was  only  a  few  degrees  above  zero. 

By  degrees,  however,  finding  in  him  no  other  ca- 
pacity suited  to  their  requirements,  they  had  accus- 
tomed themselves  to  regard  him  as  one  of  those  use- 
ful human  beings  who,  in  a  quiet  way,  contribute  to 
the  comfort  of  houses  not  their  own ;  who  are  gen- 
erally recognized  as  belonging  to  the  lady  of  the 


252  A  JOURNEY  TO 

house,  without  being  suspected  of  claiming  over  her 
any  reciprocal  proprietary  rights ;  who  serve  to  en- 
liven many  a  vacant  hour  with  the  charm  of  their 
conversation,  and  temper  many  a  family  affliction 
with  the  solace  of  their  sympathy;  who  are  always 
present,  and  always  ready,  to  take  a  fourth  hand  at 
whist  if  it  is  wanted;  and  who  benevolently  keep 
the  children  quiet  by  entertaining  them  with  bonbons 
and  fairy  tales. 

To  hosts  and  guests  alike  such  persons  are  the  in- 
dispensable conditions  of  a  thoroughly  pleasant  salon. 
They  constitute  a  sort  of  household  furniture,  con- 
venient for  general  use,  but  not  inconveniently  at- 
tractive of  general  notice.  Their  place  in  the  fam- 
ily is  scarcely  perceived  so  long  as  it  is  filled.  It  is 
only  when  that  place  is  empty  forever  that,  missing 
something,  both  husband  and  wife,  and,  above  all, 
the  children,  cannot  keep  their  looks  away  from 
the  vacant  seat ;  for  then,  every  day,  and  every  hour 
of  the  day,  they  all  feel  the  want  of  what  is  gone. 
And  because  my  friend  pursued  so  good-humoredly 
and  inoffensively  his  course  through  life,  spectators 
of  it  more  distant  than  myself  found  nothing  notice- 
able in  the  ways  of  him  ;  which  neither  shed  before 
them  any  very  shining  light,  nor  left  behind  them 
any  deep  shadow. 

To  the  few,  however,  who  were  more  intimately 
acquainted  with  Kadenburg,  or  by  whom  his  charac- 
ter had  been  more  attentively  studied,  it  was  appar- 
ent that  this  equable  demeanor  was  only  an  exceed- 
ingly well-made  coat  which  he  wore  in  society ;  and 
that  the  even  temperature  of  his  manner  was  the  re- 


THE  GROSSGLOCKNER  MOUNTAIN.  253 

suit  of  a  vigilant  self-control,  which  it  sometimes 
cost  him  a  considerable  exertion  to  maintain.  There 
were  unguarded  moments,  revealing  to  an  observant 
eye  the  inward  struggle  whereby  this  external  equa- 
nimity was  acliieved,  and  what  strength  of  will  was 
exhausted  in  the  hourly  effort  of  it.  There  were 
times,  too,  when  the  combat  was  suspended  by  the 
fatigue  of  the  combatant — when  an  immense  lassi- 
tude completely  overcame  him,  and  every  nerve  and 
faculty  of  the  man  subsided  into  a  state  of  resigned 
abeyance,  in  which  both  the  desire  and  the  capacity 
of  enjoyment  were  extingnished. 

But  he  rarely  succumbed  to  these  fits  of  depres- 
sion ;  and,  when  they  came  upon  him,  he  shook  them 
off  quickly  with  a  resolute  resumption  of  his  habit- 
nal  smile.  One  saw  that  he  had  a  determined  will 
to  keep  his  mind  clear,  as  it  were,  of  every  course 
into  which  he  did  not  wish  others  to  suppose  it  ca- 
pable of  wandering,  Nor  did  any  element  of  violence 
ever  enter  into  the  arena  of  this  secret  conflict. 
There  were  no  attempts  to  drown  the  voice  of  the 
adversary  in  paroxysms  of  loud  mirth  or  wild  gayety. 
It  was  an  honest,  steady  wrestling  of  the  man  with 
liimself  —  a  dreadful  hand-to-hand  struggle,  which 
looked,  nevertheless,  so  like  a  friendly  embrace  that 
only  a  keen  listener  could  hear  the  labored  breath- 
ing of  the  wrestler. 

And  thus  there  was  in  the  whole  demeanor  of  this 
man  that  high  tone  which  belongs  to  men  of  calm 
and  composed  character,  but  with  a  nuance  distin- 
guishable only  by  a  well-trained  ear;  as  when  the 
string  of  a  viol  is  broken,  and  the  violinist  goes 


254  A  JOUKNEY  TO 

on  courageously  playing  his  score  upon  a  lower 
one. 

I  was  the  more  impressed  by  this  appearance  of 
restrained  composure  in  the  character  of  my  friend 
when  I  met  him  again  in  after-life,  from  my  remem- 
brance of  the  impulsive,  open-hearted  gayety  which 
had  been  particularly  noticeable  in  him  during  his 
college  days.  In  those  days  we  were  drawn  togeth- 
er by  similarities  of  taste  and  disposition.  After- 
wards our  paths  in  life  diverged;  and  I  had  not  seen 
him  for  several  years,  when  an  accidental  meeting 
renewed  the  friendship  of  our  youth,  which  subse- 
quent intercourse  confirmed  and  deepened  by  a  com- 
mon interest  in  many  things. 

E.adenburg'8  sister  possessed  a  delightful  villa  in 
one  of  those  summer  resorts  which  are  within  easy 

reach   of  .     She   was   fond    of  receiving  her 

friends  there,  and  they  were  all  delighted  to  come 
whenever  she  asked  them ;  for  she  was  still  an  ex- 
ceedingly handsome  woman,  and  her  young  daughter 
was  already  a  very  lovely  creature.  Moreover,  both 
mother  and  daughter  had  the  most  charming  man- 
ners, and  were  as  amiable  and  intelligent  as  they 
were  good-looking. 

In  the  course  of  one  unusually  hot  summer,  a  rath- 
er mixed  gathering  of  guests  from  town  was  assem- 
bled at  this  villa,  and  I  happened  to  be  one  of  them. 
My  own  visit,  however,  w^as  more  particularly  to  E,a- 
denburg,  who  had  come  to  stay  with  his  sister  for  the 
rest  of  the  season. 

It  was  close  upon  the  dinner  hour.  The  ladies  of 
the  house  had  gone  to  their  toilet,  and  Radenburg 


THE  GROSSGLOCKNER  MOUNTAIN.  255 

was  not  3'ot  returned  from  one  of  liis  daily  botanical 
excursions.  AVe  guests  were  sitting  or  Ijing  on  the 
lawn  under  the  shady  trees,  with  our  faces  all  hun- 
grily turned  to  the  north  side  of  the  house,  where 
the  cool  dining-room  opened  on  to  the  terrace.  The 
country  air  sharpens  the  appetite;  and,  as  we  had 
been  breathing  it  all  the  morning,  we  were  now 
nearly  famished.  There  was  also  a  thirsty  influence 
in  the  scene  around  us.  Every  leaflet  hung  breath- 
less in  the  glowing  heat,  as  if  longing  for  refresh- 
ment ;  the  flowers  drooped  their  heads  ;  and  stretch- 
ed nndcr  a  bush,  with  his  tongue  lolling  out  of  his 
mouth,  Kaspe,  our  hostess's  white  poodle,  was  audi- 
bly panting. 

It  was  horribly  wearisome.  Every  one  was  silent, 
and  yawning.  The  stillness  was  rather  emphasized 
than  relieved  by  an  occasional  hungry  sigh  from  one 
of  the  guests,  or  an  impatient  snort  from  Raspe  at 
some  fly  which  had  settled  on  his  nose,  and  which 
he  was  too  lazy  to  snap  at.  When  the  sigh  and  the 
snort  subsided,  the  only  sounds  upon  the  silence  were 
a  distant  chirping  in  the  hedges  and  a  restless  tap- 
ping on  the  gravel  path.  Both  these  sounds  were 
monotonous  and  incessant ;  both  went  on  with  a  sort 
of  raVbia  ;  both  were  short,  sharp,  and  yet  continuous 
— an  endless  staccato  \\'\i\\on\>  pause;  each  by  itself 
was  irritating,  and  both  together  were  maddening. 

The  chirping  was  from  the  crickets,  the  tapping 
from  the  tiny  hottines  of  Countess  Achenberg. 

This  little  countess  was  as  fair  and  slight  as  a 
sylph.  Her  flesh  seemed  diaphanous;  her  beauty 
was  all  in  expression,  and  her  fine  and  delicate  figure 


256  A  JOURNEY  TO 

liad  the  effect  of  an  apparition  which  miglit  at  any 
moment  vanisli  away  while  you  looked  at  it.  Mean- 
while, it  was  full  of  a  restless,  though  fitful  vitality. 
She  liked  to  be  moving  about  when  every  one  else 
was  quiet ;  and  to  chatter,  irrepressibly  and  charm- 
ingly, whenever  there  was  a  general  indisposition  to 
talk.  On  the  other  hand,  however,  in  the  midst  of 
the  most  animated  company,  she  would  curl  herself 
up  in  an  easy-chair  as  still  as  a  dozing  kitten,  and 
listen  to  the  most  brilliant  conversation  with  eyes 
half  shut,  as  if  unconscious  of  all  around  her. 

Her  physician  had  no  idea  how  she  contrived  to 
live  on,  so  long  after  her  life  had  been  given  up  by 
himself  and  his  colleagues.  He  shook  his  head  du- 
biously, and  even  resentfully,  every  time  he  saw  lier. 
And  indeed  her  face  consisted  almost  entirely  of 
two  immense  blue  eyes,  to  which  all  the  rest  of  it 
was  only  a  kind  of  delicate  filagree  setting.  This 
lady's  illegitimately  prolonged  life  was  to  his  mind 
a  sort  of  blasphemy  against  the  sacred  infallibility 
of  the  laws  of  Nature.  Savonarola,  however,  would 
have  probably  said  of  her  that  in  her  case  the  fleshy 
veil  had  been  worn  away  by  the  spirit  into  a  refined 
medium,  transparent  to  its  inner  light.  For,  in  re- 
pose, she  looked  like  one  of  those  affecting  little  im- 
ages of  mediaeval  saints  which  one  sees  enshrined 
under  a  Gothic  baldachin.  But  whenever  she  roused 
lierself — as  she  was  continually  doing,  -with  a  sudden 
impulse — out  of  these  states  of  immobility,  all  their 
rigidness  melted  at  once  into  a  vivacity  of  outline 
and  movement  as  quick  and  sparkling  as  sunbeams 
on  a  rivulet ;  and  forthwith  the  Gothic  saint  was 


THE  GKOSSGLOCKNER  MOUNTAIN.  257 

transformed  into  a  very  captivating  woman,  singu- 
larly graceful  and  lively. 

Nor  could  any  one  then  doubt  the  thoroughly 
modem  texture  of  the  fine  nervous  system  whose 
sensitive  fibres  had  been  stiffened  but  a  moment  be- 
fore into  the  saintly  outlines  of  the  rigid  niediseval 
imao-e.  These  vibratino:  nerves  it  must  have  been 
that  had  frayed  so  thin  and  fine  the  fleshly  veil ;  and 
they  alone  seemed  now  to  sustain  in  fitful  animation 
the  spiritualized  body  that  remained.  What  it  was, 
liowever,  that  kept  these  restless  nerves  themselves 
still  going,  and  imparted  to  them  such  surprising 
elasticity  and  endurance,  remained  to  the  physician 
a  riddle  and  a  rebuke.  There  was,  moreover,  in  the 
general  tone  of  this  lady's  character  a  certain  note 
which  in  others  would  have  been,  perhaps,  unpleas- 
antly eccentric;  but  in  her  it  was  only  as  if  a  strain 
of  tender  tone  were  being  played  upon  a  violin  that 
has  been  newly  strung. 

Suddenly  the  countess  stopped  short  in  her  restless 
pacing  of  the  gravel-walk,  and  glanced  at  our  circle. 
It  was  a  glance  which  had  on  all  of  us  the  effect  of  an 
untimely  flourish  of  fiddles  in  the  midst  of  a  gener- 
al pause.  A  thrill  went  through  the  whole  hungry 
group.  Imagine  a  bear  who  is  expected  to  growl  sa- 
gaciously, or  even  dance,  when  he  is  sulking  for  his 
food.  But  it  was  no  use.  One  had  to  dance  to  the 
tune  of  those  big  eyes  whenever  they  pleased.  And 
the  only  question  was  which  of  us  should  be  tlieir 
first  victim  ;  for  it  is  a  well-known  fact  that  whoever 
s-peaks  first  after  a  general  silence  is  sure  to  say  some- 
thing silly. 
17 


258  A  JOUBNEY  TO 

"  I  should  like  to  know,"  said  one  of  our  party,  a 
tliin,  sallow  man, "  why  Radenburg  always  leaves  us 
so  suddenly,  and  without  any  sort  of  reason." 

The  speaker  was  a  would-be  dramatic  poet;  and 
in  these  disappearances  of  Radenburg  he  had  evi- 
dently begun  to  sniff  the  plot  of  a  tragedy  he  had 
for  years  been  in  search  of.  Apart  from  this  dra- 
matic hobby  of  his,  he  was  really  a  most  inoffensive 
creature;  and  if  he  would  have  allowed  us  to  cut  his 
long  hair  a  good  deal  shorter,  and  prevent  him  from 
continually  sucking  his  pencil,  I  am  sure  we  should 
all  have  been  ready  to  do  him  these  little  kindnesses 
with  the  best  will  in  the  world.  As  it  was,  I  think 
that,  in  a  passive  sort  of  way,  we  were  grateful  to  him 
for  having  started  a  general  subject  of  conversation 
adapted  to  the  depressed  condition  of  our  faculties. 

Tiie  motif  given,  the  variations  followed ;  and 
"  Yes,  why  ?"  grunted  a  stout  millionaire,  whose  serv- 
ant always  carried  liis  umbrella  behind  him,  and 
whose  social  habit  was  to  let  other  people  talk  for 
him. 

"  Yes,  wh}'  ?"  repeated  the  millionaire. 

"He  is  a  poet!"  said  the  millionaire's  daughter — a 
rose-bud  only  just  transplanted  from  an  educational 
forcing-house  into  the  open  air  of  society. 

"My  brother-in-law, Conrad  Radenburg,"  said  our 
host, "is  on  one  of  his  customarj'  excursions  into  the 
insect  world,  lie  has  in  hand  the  discovery  of  a 
tremendous  secret  of  the  coleoptera  or  lejndoptera, 
or  something  of  that  sort,  and  is  always  at  it.  His 
room  here  is  already  a  den  of  insectivorous  plants." 

"  That  is  an  explanation  of  the  mystery,"  replied 


THE  GROSSGLOCKNER  MOUNTAIN.  259 

tliG  dramaturgist, "entirely  inconsistent  with, and, as 
I  conceive,  emphatically  contradicted  by,  the  deeply 
tragical  expression  I  have  noticed  in  his  face  on  these 
occasions.  It  is  not  the  face  of  an  eager  naturalist, 
but  the  countenance  of  Saul  when  the  dark  spirit 
was  on  him." 

''''Quelle  mgenieuse  invention P''  laughed,  from  un- 
der her  pretty  mustache,  the  Baroness  Boden  ;  a  bru- 
nette as  seductive  as  she  was  coquettish,  with  the 
archest  of  downy  upper  lips,  the  roundest  of  arms, 
the  softest  of  hands,  the  pertest  little  foot,  and  the 
longest  retinue  of  devoted  slaves. 

"  Ce  hon  Madenburg  P^  she  continued,  "  why  can- 
not he  take  his  afternoon  doze  like  any  one  else? 
He  assumes  these  mysterious  airs  to  make  himself 
interesting." 

"Perhaps  he  suffers  from  headaches,"  suggested 
an  old  lady  companion  with  blue  spectacles,  thought- 
fully sticking  her  needle  into  a  horrible  little  bit  of 
brimstone -colored  embroidery  on  which  it  was  em- 
ployed. 

And  so  the  conversation  rambled  on  inanely,  till 
it  became  a  sort  of  round  game  of  idiotic  guesses, 
to  which  every  one  in  turn  contributed  some  new 
banality ;  except,  indeed,  the  old  lad_y,  who  never 
changed  her  card,  but  stuck  to  the  headache. 

Griifin  Achenberg,  who  had  been  listening  to  the 
conversation  without  uttering  a  word,  suddenly 
turned  towards  me  with  a  quick  jerk. 

"And  yon,"  she  said,  "  who  arc  his  friend  ?" 

I  felt  those  big  eyes  of  hers  upon  me  as  if  two  burn- 
ing stars  were  boring  their  beams  into  my  forehead. 


260  A  JOURNEY  TO 

"  I  dou't  know,"  said  I,  "  But  since  all  you  ladies 
have  failed  to  reclaim  liiai,I  take  it  for  granted  that 
he  is  incurable,  and  that  whatever  be  his  idee  fixe,  no 
power  on  earth  will  move  him  from  it." 

Tlie  Griifin  turned  sharply  round  without  another 
word,  and  continued  her  promenade. 

Over  the  faces  of  the  other  ladies  fleeted,  at  the 
same  time,  a  curiously  complicated  and  slightly  omi- 
nous expression,  which,  however,  was  happily  con- 
verted into  a  general  smile  of  satisfaction  by  the 
welcome  announcement  of  dinner. 

Radenburg,  who  meanwhile  had  returned  in  time 
to  join  us  at  table,  sat  between  an  inquisitive  spinster 
of  forty  and  the  millionaire's  daughter.  They  both 
treated  him  like  a  pet  doll.  The  elder  lady,  in  her 
pertinacious  efforts  to  "pluck  out  the  heart  of  his 
mystery,"  bored  a  deal  of  dry  sawdust  out  of  him, 
and  the  younger  one  clothed  the  supposed  poet  in 
all  the  finery  of  her  young  imagination.  Radenburg 
submitted  passively  to  tlie  boring  and  costuming, 
like  a  well-conducted  doll  that  moves  hands,  feet, 
and  eyes,  and  even  says  "yes"  and  "no"  when 
pinched  in  the  proper  place.  By  the  time  that  des- 
sert was  served,  however,  he  had  begun  to  grow  rest- 
ive ;  and  no  sooner  had  we  risen  from  table  than  he 
artfully  endeavored  to  effect  his  retreat. 

But  the  elderly  spinster  was  not  to  be  evaded,  and 
promptly  placing  her  arm  in  his, "I  want,"  said  she, 
"to  ask  your  advice, Herr  von  Radenburg." 

"My  advice?"  faltered  Radenburg,  looking  the 
picture  of  dismay  ;  " must  you  have  it  at  once?" 

"If  you  please,"  said  the  lady,  as  she  calmly  car- 


THE   GROSSGLOCKNER   MOUNTAIN.  261 

ricd  Iiim  off  along  the  terrace,  and  down  one  of  the 
alley's  in  the  garden. 

Soon,  however,  liadenbiirg  was  seen  re-emerging 
from  tlie  alley  all  alone.  There  was  a  general  and 
significant  simper  among  the  ladies  as  my  friend  loi- 
tered back  to  the  house,  innocently  contemplating 
the  tips  of  his  toes  while  he  went  along. 

This  interesting  study  of  his  was  suddenly  inter- 
rupted by  a  hand  on  his  arm  ;  and  a  very  pretty  hand 
too,  exceedingly  well -shaped  and  dazzlingly  white, 
for  it  belonged  to  Baroness  Boden. 

"  Radenburg,  a  word  with  you  in  confidence  !"  said 
the  baroness,  familiarly,  as  she  opened  upon  him  her 
half- closed  eyes,  which  were  of  the  color  of  cats' 
eyes.  Their  opaline  gleam,  and  the  glittering  teeth 
which  her  smile  simultaneously  unsheathed  from  un- 
der the  delicately  curved  and  downy  upper  lip,  put 
me  in  mind,  as  I  watched  her,  of  those  beautiful 
beasts  of  prey  whose  graceful  movements  have  a 
cruel  purpose.  The  white  hand  which  had  just  ar- 
rested my  friend's  loitering  steps  was  attached  to  an 
arm  equally  white,  and  deliciously  rounded.  With  a 
scarcely  perceptible  movement,  this  white  arm  coiled 
itself  round  Radenburg's,  and  lay  there  in  a  snake- 
like repose. 

The  enchantress  paused  a  moment,  swept  with  a 
swift,  confident  glance  the  whole  group  who  were 
watching  her  from  the  terrace,  and  then  bore  away 
the  victim,  carefully  lifting,  as  she  went,  the  frill  of 
her  dainty  petticoat  just  enough  to  reveal  an  exqui- 
site foot  and  ankle. 

The  ladies  on  the  terrace  all  looked  like  the  chorus 


263  A  JOURNEY  TO 

in  an  opera  when  the  hero  has  departed  to  liis  doom. 
In  tlie  dark  shadows  of  the  trees  under  which  Raden- 
bnrg  had  disappeared  with  the  baroness,  mortal  was 
the  combat  about  to  be  waged  between  the  power 
of  woman  and  the  obstinacy  of  man;  and  armed 
in  all  the  fascinations  of  their  sex  was  the  champion 
who  had  undertaken  to  maintain  its  cause. 

Conceive,  then,  their  consternation  when  the  des- 
tined victim  presently  reappeared  in  the  broad  sun- 
sliine,  apparently  unscathed  I  T])ere  was  a  dead  si- 
lence all  round ;  and  as  slowly  as  Banquo's  ghost, 
Kadenburg  stalked  on  towards  the  house — unaccom- 
panied ! 

In  this  solemn  moment  up  rose  the  old  lady  with 
the  blue  spectacles.  Laying  aside  her  brimstone- 
colored  embroidery,  she  advanced  towards  Iladen- 
burg,  fumbled  in  her  reticule,  and  fished  out  of  it  a 
little  bottle  which  she  placed  in  his  hand. 

There  was  something  awful  in  the  tone  of  her 
voice  as  she  said  to  liim, 

"A  sovereign  cure  for  Iieadache — ten  drops  on  a 
lump  of  sugar!" 

Meanwhile  the  millionaire's  rose-bud  daughter  had 
stolen  up  to  the  other  side  of  him.  She  said  noth- 
ing, but  she  looked  her  prettiest,  as  with  a  blush  she 
placed  a  flower  in  his  button-hole. 

Eadenburg  bowed  silently,  right  and  left,  to  the 
two  ladies,  and  fled  as  fast  as  his  feet  could  carry 
Lim, 

The  old  lady  and  the  young  one  were  left  looking' 
at  each  other,  like  the  first  and  last  man  in  Ilebel's 
poem — 


THE   GROSSGLOCKNER  MOUNTAIN.  263 

"  They  meet,  and  there  silently,  face  to  face, 
Stand  staring,  brother  at  brother; 
The  first  and  the  last  of  the  human  race, 
With  nothing  to  say  to  each  other!" 

Then  they  both  plunged  into  tlie  shadows  of  the 
alley;  and  one  by  one  the  other  ladies  left  the  ter- 
race, and  dispersed,  like  threatening  clouds,  about  the 
garden. 

Countess  Achenberg  alone  remained,  curled  np  in 
her  arm-chair,  near  the  gentlemen,  who  were  smok- 
ing on  a  retired  part  of  the  terrace,  to  which  they 
had  betaken  themselves  immediately  after  dinner. 
Slie  had  noticed  every  detail  of  this  little  comedy 
(tliat  I  felt  sure  of)  with  those  big  eyes  of  hers, 
which  were  now  bent  upon  the  ground  in  one  of  her 
fits  of  self  -  absorption  ;  and  knowing  that  at  such 
moments  she  did  not  like  to  be  disturbed,  I  descend- 
ed the  steps  of  the  terrace  and  strolled  throngh  the 
garden  towards  an  arbor  at  the  outskirts  of  the  al- 
ley, in  which  some  of  the  other  ladies  were  sitting. 

Ontside  this  arbor  all  was  clear  and  sunny,  but  not 
so  were  the  fair  faces  within  it;  and  not  caring  to 
confront  the  storm  I  saw  brewing  there,  I  hastily 
retiaced  my  steps  back  to  the  terrace.  Here  I  found 
the  smokers  discussing  politics  over  their  coffee.  It 
was  jnst  before  the  Franco-German  War,  and  conse- 
qnently  tlie  social  atmosphere  was  here,  also,  in  a 
rather  stormy  condition;  so  I  again  beat  a  retreat. 
Ihit  I  felt  horribly  bored  and  restless;  and  as  there 
is  nothing  which  a  generous  man  is  more  willing  to 
share  with  a  friend  than  ennui,  I  at  last  instinctive- 
ly re-entered  the  house,  mounted  the  stairs  to  Eaden- 


364  A  JOURNEY  TO 

bnrg's  room,  and  knocked  without  compunction  at 
his  door. 

My  knock  elicited  first  an  angry  growl,  which  was 
quickly  followed  by  a  fine  clicking  sound  like  the 
snapping  of  a  lock  or  the  cocking  of  a  pistol,  and 
then  a  reluctant  "  Come  in !" 

The  room,  as  I  entered,  was  so  full  of  tobacco- 
smoke  that  I  had  some  difiiculty  in  discovering  its 
inmate  through  the  clouds  that  surrounded  him. 
lie  was  lying  on  a  chaise  longue,  his  coffee  on  a  lit- 
tle table  beside  it,  and  one  end  of  an  enormously 
long  Turkish  pipe  in  his  mouth.  He  turned  towards 
nie  a  dreamy,  absent  look,  which  slowly  changed 
into  one  of  reproachful  surprise,  as  he  exclaimed, 

"  And  thou  too  ?" 

He  was  right ;  and  the  question  sounded  to  my 
conscience  like  ''^Et  tu,  Brute  f'^ 

There  in  one  corner  lay  the  poor  little  rose-bud ; 
in  another  the  unfortunate  bottle  with  its  precious 
drops;  and  I  felt  with  shame  that  I  deserved  to  oc- 
cupy a  third.  I  retreated  without  answering  a  word  ; 
but  just  as  my  hand  was  on  the  door,  he  called  after 
me, 

"Do  you  smoke  Syrian  tobacco?  I  have  no 
other." 

"  Yes,"  said  I. 

" Then,"  said  he,  "sit  down  and  take  a  chibouqueV 

I  threw  myself  into  an  arm-chair,  and  for  a  while 
we  smoked  our  Latakia  in  silence. 

lladenburg's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  a  casket  which 
was  placed  on  the  table  beside  him.  There  was 
something  peculiar  in  the  shape  of  the  little  key 


THE   GROSSGLOCKNEIi  MOUNTAi:S'.  265 

which  stood  in  the  lock  of  it.  I  remembered  that 
Kadeiiburg  always  wore  this  key  attached  to  his 
watch-chain;  and  it  struck  me  tliat  the  clicking 
sound  I  had  heard,  before  he  bade  me  come  in,  must 
liave  been  caused  by  the  hasty  shutting  and  locking 
of  the  casket. 

Before  my  friend  spoke  again,  the  clouds  of  smoke 
between  us  had  become  so  thick  that  I  could  no  lon- 
ger discern  his  features;  and  liis  dreamy  voice  came 
to  me  out  of  an  impenetrable  iriist. 

"  Have  you  ever  been  up  the  Grossglockner  Mount- 
ain ?"  asked  the  voice. 

"  No,"  said  I. 

"Then,"  replied  the  voice,  "you  shall  ascend  it 
with  me.  Don't  be  afraid.  I  know  you  are  no 
lover  of  alpine  adventures.  The  expedition  shall 
be  only  in  thoughl;.  I  make  it  every  day  with  my 
chibouque.  You  can  ini])art  this  information  to  our 
inquisitive  friends  down -stairs.  The  rest  of  my 
time  is  at  their  service,  and  I  am  always  glad  when 
I  can  be  of  the  least  use  or  amusement  to  others ; 
but  this  one  hour  of  the  day  they  must  really  be 
good  enough  to  spare  me,  for — " 

He  stopped  suddenly,  and  then  added,  in  a  hesi- 
tating tone,  "No  matter,  'tis  no  business  of  theirs, 
but  you  shall  know  it  if  you  will." 

Radenburg  paused  again.  For  some  time  he  went 
on  smoking  in  a  profound  silence,  which  I  did  not 
venture  to  disturb.  The  fragrant  cloud  that  con- 
cealed him  from  my  siglit  grew  denser  and  denser. 
At  last  the  voice  came  again  out  of  the  mist,  and  in 
tones  even  dreamier  than  before. 


266  A  JOURNEY  TO 

"  There  was,  once  upon  a  time,"  said  the  voice,  "  a 
girl,  fair  and  shy,  and  a  bov,  reserved  and  taciturn. 
They  both  lived  jnst  outside  the  mediasval  fosse  and 
many-towered  rampart  which  enclosed  the  crowded 
buildings  of  an  ancient  city.  The  city  was  old  ;  but 
the  life  in  it,  still  young  and  vigorous,  had  boldly 
overleaped  the  rampart  and  the  ditch,  from  which  a 
broad,  long  street  had  thus  adventured  forth,  all  by 
itself,  across  the  green  glacis  and  the  meadows  be- 
yond— a  street  of  houses  surrounded  by  large  gar- 
dens. 

"Right  against  the  dark  old  tower  of  the  rampart 
stood  a  villa,  completely  overgrown  with  a  luxuriant 
variety  of  bright  creepers ;  and  in  this  villa  the  girl 
lived  with  her  mother,  a  widowed  lady,  of  old  but 
impoverished  family.  Just  opposite  the  villa  lived 
the  bo}',  in  a  large,  high-gabled  hguse. 

"All  the  windows  of  the  villa  were  closely  cur- 
tained against  the  light,  with  the  exception  of  one, 
opening  on  to  a  balcony,  where,  between  the  parted 
draperies,  a  fine  female  profile  was  sometimes  illumi- 
nated by  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  Without  that 
illumination  it  would  scarcely  have  been  distinguish- 
able from  the  whiteness  of  the  curtains  through  which, 
moonlike,  it  borrowed  its  faint  lustre  from  the  sun. 
It  was  generally  bent  over  a  book,  brushed  by  its 
drooping  ringlets;  and  here  and  there  about  the 
green  framework  of  creeping  plants  which  formed  a 
background  to  its  fine,  slight  outlines,  hung  the  sullen 
blossoms  of  a  luxuriant  passion-flower.  By  the  gar- 
den-gate of  the  villa  was  always  crouching  a  little 
pug-dog,  whose  eyes  with  a  wof  ul  stare  said  as  plainly 


THE   GROSSGLOCKNER  MOUNTAIN".  267 

as  eyes  can  say, '  The  world  is  a  vale  of  tears  !'  The 
pug-dog  had  round  his  neck  a  velvet  ribbon,  colored 
like  the  passion-flowers  on  the  screen  behind  the  bal- 
cony, and  the  draperies  drawn  across  the  other  case- 
ments of  the  villa ;  and  the  soft  violet  tone  of  all  these 
tints  harmonized  with  the  face  of  the  woman  above 
at  the  window,  and  the  child  below  in  the  garden. 

"There,  under  a  weeping  willow,  stands  a  stone 
chair,  fantastically  carved,  and  in  the  chair  is  sitting 
the  child,  a  little  girl,  whose  delicate  face  glimmers 
through  a  cloud  of  soft  curls.  The  fair  young  face 
lias  a  pensive  and  refined  expression  ;  and  the  child, 
sits  there  as  motionless  as  a  little  marble  goddess,  set 
for  a  garden  ornament  on  her  quaintly  carved  pedes- 
tal, in  a  bower  of  blossoming  verdure.  The  whole 
image  and  its  harmonious  surroundings  have  a  ten- 
der charm,  which  fails,  however,  to  attract  a  single 
glance  from  the  boy  at  the  other  garden-gate  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  street.  Wiienever  he  looks  up 
from  what  he  is  about,  it  is  only  to  stare  at  the  cor- 
ner window  of  the  house  behind  him.  This,  like 
all  the  other  windows  of  that  house,  is  thrown  wide 
open  to  the  fresh  air  and  sunlight ;  and  by  the  win- 
dow-sill is  seated  a  bu.xom,  comely  dame,  with  a  cheer- 
ful face  and  a  beaming  smile.  She  is  mending  a  very 
big  rent  in  a  very  small  pair  of  breeches ;  and  over 
lier  homely  task,  as  if  it  had  for  her  some  irresistibly 
humorous  association,  the  good  soul  privately  breaks 
now  and  then  into  a  little  cordial  chuckle,  which  she 
hastens  to  hide  away  under  a  mien  of  dignified  ma- 
ternal reproof  whenever  the  bo}''  in  the  garden  be- 
low looks  up  to  that  corner  window. 


268  A  JOURNEY  TO 

"Many  a  time, perchance,  ere  tlie  day  is  over,  wilt 
thou  a^ain  have  occasion  to  renew  both  the  inward 
chuckle  and  the  outward  expression  of  reproof,  thou 
good,  kind-hearted  mother!  That  little  pickle  of 
thine  is,  meanwhile,  busily  engaged  in  the  examina- 
tion of  a  small  wooden  tray  on  which  he  has  pinned 
a  multitude  of  dead  butterflies.  Beside  him,  on  the 
ground,  is  a  large  bottle  crammed  with  all  manner  of 
crawling  and  creeping  creatures,  and  a  handkerchief, 
tightly  knotted  together  by  its  four  corners  into  a 
bulging  bag,  which  heaves  and  struggles  with  a  snaky 
movement  from  within,  and  seems  to  be  making  a 
liuge  effort  to  wriggle  itself  away  sidcwise  across  the 
lawn.  The  J'oung  naturalist  is  beginning  to  feel  hun- 
gry, but  he  is  restrained  by  Sundry  scruples  from  en- 
tering the  house  with  his  hard-won  treasures ;  and 
he  keeps  one  hand  awkwardly  tucked  behind  him,  as 
if  to  conceal  some  unlucky  rent  in  that  part  of  his 
garments. 

"  The  little  goddess  of  the  weeping  willow  has  also 
at  last  begun  to  show  signs  of  restlessness.  She  is 
not  Iiungry,  but  she  is  bored  to  death.  She,  with 
lier  silken  curls  and  her  violet  frock,  is  not  allowed 
to  associate  with  the  children  in  the  street,  and  for 
many  a  day,  perhaps,  she  may  have  east  longing 
glances  now  and  then  across  to  the  lad  in  the  oppo- 
site garden.  He  does  not  seem  inclined  to  come  and 
play  with  her.  nor,  indeed,  does  he  look  at  all  a  fit 
playmate  for  such  a  dainty  little  damsel;  for  he  is 
always  poring  over  his  horrid  insect-cases,  and  he  is 
ragged  and  soiled  from  scrambling  into  all  sorts  of 
holes  and  corners,  and  up  the  trees  and  through  the 


THE   GROSSGLOCKNER  MOUNTAIN.  269 

bushes,  in  search  of  their  ugly  contents.  But  then, 
at  least,  he  is  something  different  from  her  only  oth- 
er playthings — the  melancholy  pug,  and  the  monot- 
onous parrot,  and  the  baronial  coronet  worked  in 
hair,  and  framed  under  glass,  which,  whether  prized 
as  a  family  relic  or  admired  as  a  work  of  art,  was  only 
interesting  to  an  acquired  taste. 

"Just  at  this  moment  tlie  little  maiden,  by  good 
or  ill  luck,  detected  a  creature  of  unknown  name  and 
unpleasant  appearance  comfortably  curled  up  on  the 
arm  of  her  marble  throne;  and  forthwith  she  set  up 
a  very  human  cry  for  help. 

"The  cry  itself  would  not  have  elicited  any  re- 
sponse from  the  boy  in  the  opposite  garden,  for  he 
was  accustomed,  and  perfectly  indifferent,  to  every 
variety  of  noise  which  the  street  was  capable  of  pro- 
ducing. But  the  cry  was  an  articulate  one,  in  which 
the  two  words,  'A  snake!  a  snake!'  M'cre  distinctly 
audible;  and  by  those  two  words  he  was  instant- 
ly and  powerfully  attracted.  In  three  bounds  he 
crossed  the  street ;  with  the  fourth  he  upset  the 
pug-dog;  and  the  next  moment  he  had  climbed  the 
rail,  cleared  the  hedge,  and  smashed  a  hydrangea. 

"  As  he  stretched  out  his  hand,  however,  to  seize 
the  monster,  he  burst  into  a  fit  of  rude  and  uncon- 
trollable laughter. 

"  '  You  stupid  !'  cried  the  boy,  '  that's  not  a  snake, 
it's  only  a  common  slug.' 

"The  little  maiden  stood  trembling  all  over;  and 
as  she  bent  forward,  with  a  shuddering  mixture  of 
fear  and  curiosity,  to  look  at  the  thing  in  his  hand, 
she  stammered  out. 


270  A  JOUKNEY  TO 

" '  Oil,  you  dirty,  dirty  boy  !' 

"She  must,  Iiowevcr,  liave  felt  a  secret  admiration 
for  the  courage  with  which  he  had  laid  hold  of  tlie 
repulsive  creature,  for  the  next  day  she  used  all  her 
little  arts  to  tempt  him  back  again.  For  this  pur- 
pose she  placed  herself  on  her  carved  throne,  raised 
lierself  up  on  tiptoe,  and  made  a  sign  to  him  with 
her  linger ;  but  she  was  so  hidden  by  the  intervening 
boughs  of  the  weeping  willow  that  the  boy  could 
only  see  a  bit  of  her  violet  dress.  She  did  not  know 
his  name,  and  so  she  called  out  to  him, 

"  'Dirty  boy,  there's  another  animal  here.' 

"And  he  came.  The  'dirty  boy'  did  not  make 
any  impression  on  him,  the  'other  animal'  did. 

"  She  led  him  on  tiptoe  to  a  rose-bush,  and  pointed 
to  one  of  its  blossoms,  in  which  a  green  and  gold 
beetle  had  ensconced  itself.  The  boy  quietly  popped 
the  unlucky  little  creature  into  a  bottle  of  spirits 
which  he  had  in  his  pocket,  and  turned  to  her  with 
a  disappointed  and  rather  contemptuous  face. 

" '  It's  nothing  out  of  the  way,'  said  the  boy ;  '  only 
a  rose -beetle  of  the  common  kind  —  vulgaris,  you 
know.' 

"While  the  rose -beetle  was  going  through  its 
death-struggle  in  the  bottle,  the  little  girl  stood  pale 
and  speechless  with  horror.     At  last  she  exclaimed, 

" '  Oh,  you  naughty,  naughty  boy  !' 

"  The  wretch  only  laughed,  and  went  ofiE  with  his 
victim. 

"  He  now  possessed  two  names  which  the  goddess 
of  the  weeping  willow  had  deigned  to  bestow  upon 
him;  and  who  knows  how  many  more  she  might 


THE   GROSSGLOCKNER  MOUNTAIN.  271 

have  graciously  found  for  him,  if  they  had  not,  some 
little  while  later,  had  a  long  talk  together,  followed 
by  a  short  dispute,  which  she  triumphantly  closed, 
by  observing, 

"'My  mother  makes  poems,  and  your  father  only 
makes  houses !' 

"  At  these  w'ords  he  turned  his  back  on  her,  and 
went  home  slowly. 

"  The  little  girl  clinched  her  right  hand,  struck  its 
little  fist  passionately  into  the  pahn  of  her  left,  and 
made  up  her  mind,  as  firm  as  a  rock,  not  to  think 
anything  more  about  him.  There  were  plenty  of 
other  boys  in  the  new  street,  and  she  would  show 
him  at  once  that  she  no  longer  cared  for  him  the 
least  little  bit  in  the  world. 

"  So  she  placed  herself  between  two  pyramids  of 
clipped  box,  and  stared  resolutely  down  the  street, 
where  the  little  boys  were  turning  somersaults,  spin- 
ning tops,  or  playing  at  robbers  and  soldiers,  wliile 
the  little  girls  sat  demurely  on  the  door-steps,  nurs- 
ing their  dolls  or  prattling  to  each  other.  She  looked 
at  it  all  musingly  for  a  long  while,  but  somehow  or 
other  it  didn't  interest  her;  and  while  she  still  stood 
listening  to  the  voices  from  the  street  she  was  fur- 
tively trying  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  '  naughty  boy ' 
in  the  garden  opposite. 

"  She  now  began  to  feel  very  sorry  that  she  had 
hurt  his  feelings  ;  and  after  hesitating  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, she  went  shyly  round  to  the  garden -gate. 
There  she  stopped  a  while,  still  hesitating,  and  then 
she  suddenly  ran  across  the  street.  That  he  might 
not  turn  his  back  upon  her  again,  she  had  taken  the 


272  A  JOUKNEY  TO 

precaution  to  carry  with  lier  a  peace-offering.  It 
was  a  bit  of  green  glass,  whicli  she  regarded  as  a  rare 
curiosity,  for  it  had  a  wonderful  effect  when  you 
looked  through  it. 

"  The  peace-offering  was  so  far  successful  that  the 
naughty  boy  did  not  again  turn  his  back  on  her. 
lie  let  her  remain  at  his  side  while  he  leisurely  test- 
ed the  effects  of  the  glass  by  looking  through  it  at 
the  house  and  garden.  All  this  while  she  stood 
breathless,  clasping  her  little  hands  behind  her  back  ; 
but  when  he  had  finished  his  experiment,  and  turned 
round  to  her  with  a  dissatisfied  look,  she  let  her  arms 
fall  at  her  side,  and  ground  a  hole  into  the  gravel 
with  her  heel. 

'"It  is  too  stupid!'  said  the  boy,  'and  there's  no 
truth  in  it.  Our  red  lionse-roof,  your  horrible  pug- 
dog,  and  your  own  pug-nose  are  all  grass-green  !' 

"  This  was  outrageous.  And  she  had  meant  so 
well  by  him  ! 

"Weeping,  she  crept  home  to  her  garden -chair. 
And  after  that  the  grass  grew  undisturbed  over  the 
foot-paths  to  the  two  garden-gates.  One  of  tliem 
was  untraversed  by  the  girl,  and  the  other  by  the 
boy. 

"And  so  the  time  passed  on. 

"  But  one  summer  morning  the  boy  stood  again  at 
the  garden-gate  of  the  opposite  house.  He  held  the 
green  glass  before  his  face,  and  was  looking  through 
it.  Thus  looking,  he  attentively  examined  every- 
thing except  the  garden-chair  opposite  and  its  lonely 
little  inmate;  for  whenever  the  glass  turned  in  that 
direction  he  quickly  withdrew  it.     And  the  little 


THE  GROSSGLOCKNER  MOUNTAIN.  273 

goddess  sat  quite  still  on  liei'  garden  throne.  This 
he  could  not  help  noticing  plainly  enough,  as  every 
now  and  then  her  unwelcome  image  reappeared  in 
the  green  glass.  In  the  afternoon  the  boy  posted 
himself  in  the  street,  still  with  the  green  glass  before 
his  eyes.  He  looked  through  the  glass  inquiringly 
at  the  pavement,  then  at  the  garden  rails  on  the  op- 
posite side,  and  finally  at  the  pug-dog  behind  them. 
The  png-dog,  thus  contemplated,  looked  more  pro- 
foundly melancholy  than  ever;  for  he  was  complete- 
ly green — a  color  which  did  not  at  all  become  him. 
The  boy  seemed  unable  to  take  his  eyes  off  this  phe- 
nomenon, but  he  felt  that  he  was  too  far  away  to 
examine  it  satisfactorily ;  so  he  slowly  crossed  the 
street,  opened  the  garden-gate,  and  planted  himself 
directly  in  front  of  the  animal.  The  pug-dog  opened 
wide  his  melancholy  eyes,  and  stared  pensively  at  the 
boy.  Through  the  green  glass  the  boy  also  stared 
pensively  at  the  pug-dog.  Just  then,  however,  he 
felt  his  neck  enclasped  by  two  soft,  warm,  slender 
arms,  and  the  next  moment  he  was  heartily  embrac- 
ing his  little  friend. 

"  From  that  day  forth  the  two  children  loved  each 
other  sincerely,  and  lived  only  for  one  another. 

"  Later  on  the  boy  went  away  to  school,  and  after- 
wards to  college ;  but  from  the  distant  city  to  which 
his  life  was  then  transplanted,  his  thoughts  were  ever 
wandering  back,  through  the  garden-gate,  to  the  lit- 
tle girl  under  the  weeping  willow.  When  he  came 
home  for  his  holidays,  no  sooner  had  the  coach  set 
him  down  at  the  inn  than  he  hastened  through  the 
town,  and  passed  out  by  its  opposite  gate-way  down 
18 


274  A  JOURNEY  TO 

the  new  street,  with  a  heart  beating  as  if  it  must 
burst  at  every  step  that  brought  him  nearer  to  that 
beloved  garden. 

"His  tirst  look  was  ever  to  the  green-mantled  vil- 
la—  her  home;  and  it  was  only  second  looks  that 
then  turned,  with  second  thoughts,  to  the  high-ga- 
bled house  which  was  his  own.  There  he  could  see 
his  father's  white  hair  and  his  mother's  dark  locks 
mingled  together,  and  their  four  loving  eyes  turned 
towards  the  gate  of  the  town  with  looks  that  seemed 
to  say, 'Is  he  coming?'  Then  their  white  poodle,  a 
sedate  and  venerable  animal  who  had  long  survived 
the  vivacity  of  youth,  sprang  out  to  greet  him  with 
unwonted  capers  and  a  spasmodic  wag  of  his  stumpy 
tail ;  then  the  father's  stalwart  figure  appeared,  till- 
ing up  the  door-way  through  which  the  mother  had 
already  passed  out  into  the  garden ;  and  as  she 
clasped  her  boy  to  her  faithful  heart,  over  her  stoop- 
ing shoulders,  one  on  each  side,  peeped  two  bloom- 
ing girls  —  the  boy's  sisters,  who,  as  sisters  do,  had 
outstripped  their  brother  in  the  short  journey  from 
childhood  to  youth. 

"  But  opposite,  across  the  street — ah,  there  by  the 
open  garden-gate,  in  her  old  place,  between  the  two 
pyramids  of  box,  stood  she^  the  goddess  of  the  weep- 
ing willow !  Her  arms  hung  down  ;  each  side  of 
her  violet  dress  the  small  white  hands  fluttered  ner- 
vously, and  her  little  head  bent  sideways  towards  her 
right  shoulder.  There  was  nothing  graceful,  or  even 
becoming,  in  her  attitude,  but  something,  neverthe- 
less, which  spoke  in  deeply  penetrating  tones  to  the 
boy's  heart.     It  was  an  inexpressibly  touching  em- 


THE  GROSSGLOCKNER  MOUNTAIN.  275 

barrassment  that  pervaded  the  whole  figure  as  slie 
stood  there  so  shy  and  still  and  painfully  constrain- 
ed ;  like  some  angel  in  an  old  German  picture,  who 
would  fain  fly  or  wander  away,  but  must  needs  stand 
waiting  motionless  upon  the  watch.  The  arrested 
feet,  the  drooping  arms,  the  bent  head,  the  longing 
eyes,  all  were  saying  in  the  same  tone, '  What  can  I 
do  without  thee  ?     Come  to  me  !  come  to  me !' 

"  And  the  boy  broke  loose  from  his  family,  and 
came. 

"She  stood  still  and  waited.  He  hastened  forward 
and  stood  still  too.  Then  her  arms  went  round  his 
neck,  and  her  large  eyes  grew  larger  and  larger  as 
they  looked  into  his,  and  she  murmured, 

" '  Thou  art  here  at  last !'  " 

Here  the  voice  of  Radenburg  faltered,  and  his 
story  came  to  a  sudden  stop. 

"You  knew  that  boy,"  he  continued,  after  a  mo- 
ment's silence,  "in  our  happy  college  days, and  you 
know  how  hard  he  worked  to  attain  distinction  and 
an  independent  position ;  for  that  boy  was  myself. 
Our  college  contemporaries  used  to  talk  of  my  impa- 
tient ambition,  but  I  was  only  thinking  all  the  while 
of  the  girl  under  the  willow-tree,  and  her  dear  eyes, 
with  the  longing  prayer  in  them, 

"  '  Come  back  to  me !  come  soon !' 

"And  at  length  the  longed-for  day  arrived  when 
come  I  could ;  a  day  for  which  I  had  labored  hard, 
and  waited  patiently,  when  I  might  rejoin  lier,  nev- 
er more  to  part ;  for  the  object  of  all  my  efforts  was 
attained.  At  home  they  were  not  expecting  my  re- 
turn.   They  knew  nothing  of  my  success.     I  wished 


276  A  JOURNEY  TO 

to  surprise  tbern.  The  train  left  at  noon.  I  was  up 
betimes  that  day,  had  breakfasted  earlj,  and  waS 
restlessly  pacing  my  chamber,  too  impatient  to  sit 
still.  The  postman  brought  me  a  circular.  I  threw 
it,  unnoticed,  on  the  table.  What  announcement  of 
any  kind  could  interest  me  that  morning?  But  af- 
terwards, as  I  was  lighting  a  cigar,  a  fepark  from  it 
fell  on  the  paper,  which  began  to  smoulder;  and  tak- 
ing it  up  to  shake  out  the  little  cinder,  I  was  startled 
by  the  first  words  of  its  lithographed  lines  which  I 
chanced  to  catch  sight  of. 

"The  circular  was  o. fav^e jMrt  de manage,  where- 
in a  certain  baroness  of  my  native  town  announced 
to  all  the  world  the  engagement  of  her  daughter 
Marie  to  a  count,  whose  titles  and  estates  were 
enumerated  at  a  length  which  nearly  filled  the  whole 
page.  I  knew  this  count  very  well,  and  had  often 
met  him.  He  was  an  amiable,  corpulent  man,  about 
forty  years  of  age,  and  a  widower  without  children. 
Alas !  I  also  knew  his  bride.  Those  deep,  large, 
longing  eyes,  how  well  I  knew  them !  The  loving 
clasp  of  those  dear  arms  about  my  neck,  how  intense- 
ly I  could  feel  it  still !  And  that  violet  dress  !  Vio- 
let was  the  color  she  habitually  -wore.  For  which 
reason,  perhaps,  every  thing  around  me  now  suddenly 
assumed  that  hue.  Even  the  lithographed  circular 
was  dyed  in  it.  The  last  thing  I  remember  was  the 
violet  appearance  of  my  own  hand  as  the  paper  fell 
from  it. 

"  When  I  recovered  consciousness  they  told  me  I 
liad  long  been  ill,  and  in  a  thoroughly  miserable  con- 
dition.    That  was  untrue.     It  was  only  when  I  came 


THE   GROSSGLOCKNER   MOUXTAIN.  277 

back  to  myself  that  my  condition  was  tlioroiiglily 
miserable.  I  remember  the  day  when,  for  the  lirst 
time  since  my  recovery,  I  was  allowed  to  sit  at  the 
open  window.  It  was  a  mild,  dull  day,  not  sunny, 
but  still  and  soft.  I  took  up  the  circular,  which 
was  lying  on  my  knee.  I  had  not  forgotten  its  con- 
tents. I  kne^v  them  by  heart;  but  with  the  perver- 
sity which  impels  the  sufferer's  finger  to  the  sore  spot, 
I  wished  to  study  them  again,  word  by  word.  In 
doing  so,  I  now  perceived  in  them  something  which 
had  escaped  my  notice.  It  was  a  little  pencil-line 
faintly  traced  under  the  name  of  the  baroness,  and 
at  the  end  of  it  was  an  M. 

"  Tiie  line  was  a  strange  one ;  soft  as  a  delicate 
secret,  tremulously  traced,  and  all  uneven — as  if  the 
poor  heart's  violent  beating  had  unsteadied  the  hand 
that  drew  it,  and  then  broken  off  and  begun  again 
lower  down,  as  if  the  eyes  that  guided  the  unsteady 
hand  had  lost  their  wa}' — blinded  by  tears!  That 
little  sign  told  me  as  plainly  as  words  the  plainest 
could  have  said — 'It  was  my  mother's  doing,  but 
I—'  " 

After  another  short  silence, "  This,"  continued  Rad- 
enburg,  "  is  the  only  bit  of  her  handwriting  that  I 
possess.  It  was  as  if,  with  her  own  hand,  she  had 
written  the  epitaph  of  her  heart,  and  sent  it  to  me 
thus.  Since  then  I  have  wandered  about  the  world, 
and  trifled  with  my  life  as  with  a  useless  thing. 
Yet  useless  as  it  was,  a  charm  seemed  in  it  against 
which  nothing  could  prevail.  I  tried  to  concentrate 
my  thoughts,  now  on  this  thing,  now  on  that ;  hop- 


278  A  JOURNEY  TO 

ing  that  here  or  tliere  some  particle  of  my  being 
might  find  an  interest  in  the  world,  and  cleave  to  it 
as  the  drifting  seed  to  the  jutting  rock.  In  vain ! 
Look  where  I  would,  it  was  ever  and  ever  the  same 
picture  that  I  saw.  In  the  midst  of  a  broad  plain,  a 
many-towered  city.  Just  beyond  its  walls,  a  house 
muffled  in  creepers.  And  in  that  housfe  a  pale  wom- 
an, who  traced,  with  tearful  ejxs  and  trembling  hand, 
the  line,  so  faint  yet  so  impassable,  which,  from  all 
that  was  once  mine  and  hers  together,  divided  all 
that  was  no  longer  hers  or  mine — a  life  in  which  it 
was  no  longer  lawful  even  to  think  of  each  other ! 

"But  enough  of  this.  I  never  willingly  speak  of 
the  past  at  all ;  and  that  is  why,  perhaps,  it  has  set 
me  talking  too  much  now.  The  dam  once  broken, 
I  cannot  stem  the  flood  that  carries  me  away.  I 
must  not  forget,  however,  that  I  have  promised  to 
take  you  with  me  up  the  Grossglockner  Mountain. 

"One  evening  in  the  early  autumn,  my  wander- 
ings, which  had  always  the  pretext  of  a  scientific 
object,  had  brought  me,  as  it  happened,  through  the 
Mollthal  to  Pleilingbluth,  a  little  village  in  the  high- 
est part  of  the  Carinthian  Mountains.  Having  se- 
cured my  lodgings  at  the  pretty  little  inn  there,  I 
strolled  out  to  look  at  the  old  Gothic  church ;  and, 
when  I  had  sufficiently  examined  its  internal  ar- 
chitecture, I  stepped  out  of  the  porch  into  the  old 
church-yard.  The  shades  of  evening  had  already 
fallen  over  the  village  below,  and  the  darkness,  mov- 
ing slowly  up  the  steep  hill-side,  completely  covered 
the  whole  lower  range  of  the  mountain  chain.  But 
above  the  sky  was  clear  and  bright,  and  in  a  lucid 


THE  GROSSGLOCKNER  MOUNTAIN.  279 

space  of  pure  ether  gleamed  a  solitary,  many-tinted 
mountain-peak.  It  was  the  snowy  summit  of  the 
Glockner,  in  all  the  splendor  of  an  alpine  after-glow. 

"'That  is  the  last  summit  on  which  the  sunset 
lingers ;  the  others  are  already  wrapped  in  night,' 
said  a  low  voice  in  front  of  me. 

"I  knew  the  voice,  and  I  knew  the  speaker — a 
woman  who,  seated  on  the  hill-side,  was  gazing  at 
the  glowing  mountain  before  us.  And  I  knew  the 
man  at  her  side.  I  shuddered,  seeing  them  togeth- 
er; and  unable  to  endure  the  torturing  sight,  I  re- 
turned to  the  inn,  and  shut  myself  up  in  my  room 
there. 

"  I  was  gazing,  in  a  sort  of  trance,  out  of  the  win- 
dow into  the  darkness  beyond,  when  the  maid,  en- 
tering with  lights,  offered  me  the  visitors'  book.  I 
could  scarcely  realize  that  she  was,  indeed,  the  wife 
of  another;  but  there  in  the  book  I  found  it  written 
in  her  own  hand — the  same  pointed  M  that  stood  at 
the  end  of  the  pencil-mark  on  the  circular.  And  al- 
though, in  the  pang  of  the  first  unprepared  moment, 
I  had  thought  it  impossible  to  bear  what  the  sight 
of  her  recalled,  1  now  longed  with  a  fervent  eager- 
ness to  see  her  once  again. 

"  Entering  the  bright  little  salle  a  manger,  I  found 
them  both  there.  The  count  recognized  me  at  once, 
and  heartily  shook  me  by  the  hand.  His  wife  stood 
perfectly  still,  and  said  not  a  word.  She  was  very 
pale  ;  her  hands  drooped  listlessly  at  her  side,  her 
head  was  slightly  bent  over  her  right  shoulder,  and 
her  large  pining  eyes  were  fixed  upon  me.  As  of 
old,  she  stood  still  and  waited ;  only  she  looked  paler 


280  A  JOURNEY  TO 

than  of  old,  and  her  e3'es  had  lost  something  of  their 
old  lustre.  I  approached  her,  and  she  gave  me  her 
hand.  It  was  icy  cold.  We  met  as  strangers — not 
as  those  who  had  known  and  loved  each  otlier. 

"  The  count  and  countess  had  planned  for  the 
next  morning  an  ascent  of  the  Parterre^  the  glacier 
of  the  'Grossglocken.  He  pressed  me  to  join  them 
in  it. 

"'I  am  a  little  awkward  at  climbing,' said  he, 
with  a  cheery  glance  at  his  figure,  which  had  grown 
much  more  corpulent  since  I  had  last  seen  him. 

"  '  You  must  for  once  in  a  way,'  he  added,  'conde- 
scend to  sacrifice  your  scientific  researches  to  a  lady's 
caprice  or  a  friend's  necessity,  and  lend  a  helping 
hand  to  my  wife.  In  expeditions  of  tliis  sort  it  is 
all  I  can  do  to  take  care  of  myself,  and  in  fact  I  had 
much  ratlier  remain  on  level  ground.  But  what  can 
I  do  ?     Ce  quefemme  veut,  you  know  !' 

"  She  had  moved  meanwhile  to  the  window,  and 
stood  there  looking  out,  though  there  was  nothing  to 
be  seen  outside  but  the  starless  blackness  of  the  night. 
Then  she  began  to  pace  the  room  up  and  down  with 
restless  steps,  like  a  person  in  a  fever,  whom  the  burn- 
ing heat  within  goads  wearily  from  place  to  place. 
This  was  something  quite  new  to  me ;  but  the  count, 
as  if  it  were  a  habit  of  his  wife's  which  had  become 
familiar  to  him,  did  not  seem  to  notice  it.  He 
laughed  and  chatted  gayly  till  we  said  good-night. 

"But  that  was  no  good-night  for  me. 

"When  I  came  down  next  morning,  in  the  twi- 
light of  the  early  dawn,  the  two  guides  were  already 
at  the  door  of  the  inn,  laden  with  plaids  and  pro- 


THE   GROSSGLOCKNER  MOUNTAIN.  281 

visions.  After  a  little  while  she  came  out  qiiicklj, 
and  at  once  mounted  her  horse.  The  count  followed 
slowly  on  foot.  He  and  I  had  agreed  the  night  be- 
fore that  we  would  not  go  on  horseback;  I,  because 
I  was  accustomed  to  walking,  and  he,  because  he 
wanted  to  reduce  his  corpulence  a  little. 

"  The  day  M'as  still  dawning,  and  the  little  village 
fast  asleep  as  we  passed  through  it  silently.  We 
were  surrounded  by  a  thick,  torpid  fog.  Above, 
before,  and  behind  us  nothing  was  visible  but  the 
gray  mist,  into  which  the  countess  and  her  horse 
at  one  moment  disappeared  as  if  by  magic,  and  the 
next  moment  emerged  from  it  like  a  ghost  arising 
out  of  the  depths  of  the  earth.  My  companion  was 
not  in  his  usual  cheery  humor.  It  was  evident  that 
early  rising  did  not  agree  with  him,  and  he  seemed 
still  half  asleep.  AValking  appeared  to  fatigue  him 
much;  the  fog  added  to  his  discomfort;  his  honest 
face  distinctly  expressed  his  wish  to  be  in  bed ;  he 
was  gloomy  and  taciturn. 

"Just  where  the  ascent  began,  we  came  up  with 
the  lady  and  her  guide  on  the  stony  slope-  of  the 
mountain  path.  I  now  walked  beside  her  horse, 
which  cautiously  picked  its  way  over  the  loose  shin- 
gles. The  fog  was  still  heavy,  but  less  motionless. 
It  seemed  to  be  gradually  breaking  up. 

"  The  countess  watched  the  shifting  motions  of 
the  mist,  and  said  to  me,  'It  looks  as  if  a  sculptor 
stood  hidden  yonder  in  the  background,  shaping  with 
invisible  hand  grotesque  weird  figures  from  the  flaky 
substance  of  tlie  fog.  Wildly  his  fancy  kneads  it 
into   wondrous   forms;    then,  dissatisfied   with   his 


283  A  JOURNEY  TO 

•work,  he  flings  them  from  liim,  and  finon  he  fash- 
ions from  their  sliattered  fragments  other  images 
still  stranger  than  the  last.  Do  you  notice  that 
giant  phantom  high  above  us  yonder  towards  the 
left?' 

"  '  Yes,'  said  I, '  it  has  long  flowing  gray  hair.' 

"  'And  a  cap,'  she  continued — 'a  high  cap  drawn 
low  over  its  forehead.  Look,  now.  The  giant  has 
lifted  his  mighty  arm,  as  if  to  hurl  across  the  valley 
the  enormous  ball  he  is  holding  in  his  hand.' 

"'Ay, but  whither?' 

"'Oh, to  the  little  wight  here  to  the  right  just  be- 
fore us.' 

"  '  What,  that  one  who  has  three  arms?' 

"'Yes,  three  arms,  so  he  has.  And  with  one  of 
them  he  is  preparing  to  throw  another  ball  at  the 
giant.  How  craftily  he  stoops  down  !  Do  you  see 
how  fast  he  diminishes  in  size?  There  !  he  has  dis- 
appeared altogether !' 

"And  she  rode  on  fast,  to  see  what  had  become  of 
the  crafty  gnome. 

"  The  fog  wove  a  transparent  veil  between  us, 
through  which  I  saw  her  glimmering  on  before  me. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  she  was  no  longer  alive,  and 
that  it  was  not  a  living  woman,  but  the  ghost  of  my 
dead  love,  I  saw  there,  luring  me  into  the  mist  in 
which  it  moved.  Her  floating  hair  gleamed  white, 
and  white  the  ghostly  skirt  of  her  long  dress.  Then 
the  gray  mist  wrapped  her  in  its  folds,  and  hid  her 
completely  from  my  sight  beneath  its  heavy  pall. 

"I  rushed  after  her.  A  great  longing  seized  me 
to  hear,  if  only  once  more,  the  sound  of  her  dear 


THE   GROSSGLOCKNER  MOUNTAm.  283 

voice.  She  liad  reined  in  lier  liorsc,  and  was  wait- 
ing for  me. 

"'He  lias  hidden  himself,' she  said, 'in  the  round 
tower  whicli  our  mist-mason  has  built  for  him  yon- 
der.' 

"'Ah,  that  mist-mason,' I  answered,  still  out  of 
brcatli, '  must  have  once  visited  our  native  town,  and 
seen  there  the  tower  on  its  ancient  rampart.  His 
work  is  exactly  like  onr  dear  old  tower.' 

"  She  was  silent,  and  steadily  perused  the  fog  land- 
scape. Her  face  was  like  that  of  a  beautiful  dead 
woman.  All  its  lineaments  were  unchanged,  but  so 
motionless  and  rigid  that  it  seemed  as  if  no  smile 
could  ever  thaw,  or  tear-drop  melt,  the  hoar-frost  fall- 
en on  its  beauty  in  a  single  night. 

"  'I  feel  chilly  !'  she  said  at  length. 

"  I  took  a  shawl  and  wrapped  it  round  her  shoul- 
ders. 

" '  Where  is  Emil  ?'  she  asked. 

"I  told  her  that  the  count  was  resting  a  little, and 
had  sent  on  his  guide  to  say  we  were  not  to  wait  for 
him  ;  he  would  follow  presently  at  his  own  pace. 

"  She  was  silent  again  ;  and  in  silence  we  both  con- 
tinued to  watch  the  changing  cloud-towers  before 
us. 

"At  last  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  speaking  to 
herself, '  The  old  tower  in  our  garden  !  That,  too, 
is  gone.' 

" '  Oh  no  !'  said  I, '  it  stands  there  still.  I  saw  it 
last  year.' 

"  '  But  the  new  proprietor,'  she  answered,  surprised, 
'told  my  inother,  when  he  bought  the  villa,  that  ho 


284  A  JOURNEY  TO 

meant  to  pull  it  down  at  once.  What  made  liim 
change  his  mind  V 

"'I  did.' 

" '  You !' 

" '  Yes,'  I  said  ;  'it  was  such  an  old  friend  of  mine, 
that  tower.  I  should  have  missed  something  in  the 
world  if  it  had  gone.  And  as  I  could  not  otherwise 
prevent  its  destruction,  1 — well,  I  bought  the  villa 
and  the  garden — tlie  whole  property,  in  short,  from 
the  person  to  whom  your  mother  sold  it.' 

" '  I  did  not  know  that  you  were  so  devoted  to  an- 
tiquities,' she  replied,  in  a  low,  tremulous  voice,  al- 
most inaudible. 

"I  noticed  only  the  trembling  of  her  voice,  and 
not  tliat  she  wished  to  change  the  subject. 

'"It  was  not  that,'  I  went  on.  ' The  old  tower  is 
a  memorial  monument  of  my  youth — nay,  it  is  more  ; 
for  beneath  that  gravestone  my  youth  lies  dead. 
Gravestones  only  speak  well  and  kindlj'^  of  the  dead. 
I  would  not,  for  all  the  world,  have  missed  what  this 
one  says;  and  I  went  back  to  read  what  it  records 
for  me  alone,  with  the  feelings  of  a  man  who  turns 
to  contemplate  the  little  earthen  mounds  which  are 
a  graveyard's  chronicles,  or  peers  into  that  tomb 
wherein  he  has  buried  all  the  past — his  own  heart. 
In  the  house  opposite  that  tower  where  once,  with 
loving  eyes,  my  parents  smiled  upon  my  childish  oc- 
cupations, strangers  were  now  watching  their  own 
children  at  play,  and  by  the  garden  rail  of  the  villa, 
below  the  tower,  a  little  girl  whom  I  had  never  seen 
before  sat  singing  a  lullaby  to  her  doll.  How  long 
will  it  be  before  these  little  ones  also,  in  their  turn. 


THE   GROSSGLOCKNER  MOUNTAIX.  285 

go  forth  into  the  wide  world,  and  the  loving  ejes 
that  watch  them  now  are  closed  in  death  like  those 
that  watched  me  then  ?  It  is  ever  the  same  old  storj. 
And  the  old  tower  knows  it  all,  and  tells  it  still. 
IIow  many  hundreds  of  times,  as  it  looked  down  upon 
us,  has  it  looked  down  on  other  children,  who  have 
since  grown  up  and  passed  away  forever?  IIow 
many  hundreds  of  times  will  the  same  thing  happen 
again?  The  hnman  life  below  it  changes  with  the 
changing  years,  but  not  the  tower  above.  The  chil- 
dren playing  in  its  shadow  come  and  go,  but  it  re- 
mains. As  the  rising  follows  the  setting  sun,  one 
generation  follows  another.  Bringing  hopes  and 
leaving  memories,  each  comes  and  goes,  as  the  others 
came  and  went.  And  year  by  year  spring  renews 
wdiat  winter  withered,  and  the  flowers  blossom  again 
— in  the  same  way,  only  not  with  the  same  blossom. 
But  it  is  all  the  same  to  the  old  tower.  As  sunrise 
after  sunset,  spring  after  winter,  blossoms  after  snows 
— so,  to  it,  are  the  children  of  to-day,  who  play  about 
it  where  those  of  yesterday  shall  play  no  more.  And 
I  could  not  but  remember  that  we,  too,  in  our  child- 
Iiood  had  looked  with  hopeful  eyes  upon  the  same 
old  ruin.' 

"  I  was  no  longer  able  to  restrain  the  rushing  flood 
of  reminiscences  which  the  thought  of  the  old  tower 
had  set  flowing.  She  at  first  listened  with  marked 
impatience  to  my  words;  and  already  she  had  made 
three  or  four  abortive  efforts  to  urge  on  her  horse, 
and  break  away  from  the  spell  that  was  deepening 
round  us.  But  I  heeded  them  not.  The  floodgates 
were  opened,  and  I  could  not  close  them,  for  all  the 


286  A  JOURNEY  TO 

past  rnslied  tlirongh  them  in  an  irrepressible  cat- 
aract. Little  by  little,  as,  wave  upon  wave  of  mem- 
ory, the  whirling  stream  rushed  on,  she,  too,  yield- 
ed to  the  current  that  was  carrying  us  both  away 
with  it. 

"When  I  reminded  her  of  the  titles  of 'Dirty 
boy '  and  '  Xaughty  boy,'  which  she  had  deigned  to 
bestow  on  me  in  the  first  days  of  our  friendship,  she 
smiled. 

"  It  was  the  first  smile  I  had  seen  on  her  dear  face 
since  we  had  met  again,  and  at  the  sight  of  it  I  felt 
as  if  I  had  still  something  to  live  for. 

"All  our  great  joys  and  little  sorrows,  every  word 
we  had  once  spoken  to  each  other,  the  whole  sweet 
idyl  of  our  childhood,  passed  in  that  moment  through 
my  soul,  and  from  my  lips.  She  listened  in  silence, 
but  no  longer  unwillingly,  her  eyes  still  fixed  upon 
the  moving  mists.  And  when  I  reminded  her  of 
our  quarrel. about  her  boast  that  her  mother  made 
poems,  and  my  father  only  houses,  a  clear,  silvery 
laugh  rang  light  and  sweet  through  the  curtaining 
vapors  round  us. 

"  She  remembered  it  all,  word  for  word,  as  well  as 
I  did.  And  I  drank  with  thirsting  soul,  drank  deep 
to  intoxication,  the  long-missed  music  of  her  voice, 
as,  laughing,  she  rejoined, 

"'Yes,  and  tliat  was  the  cause  of  the  dreadful 
judgment  by  which  I,  in  my  turn,  was  put  to  confu- 
sion. "  Our  red  house-roof^  your  horrible  pug-dog, 
and  your  own  pug-nose,  are  all  grass-green  /" ' 

" '  Ah,'  said  I, '  but  what  was  tlie  cause  of  the  two 
children's  subsequent  reconciliation  2     What  was  it 


THE   GROSSGLOCKNER  MOUNTAIN.  287 

that  forced  ns  by-and-by  to  make  np  onr  quarrel? 
Was  it  the  song  of  the  birds  and  the  scent  of  the 
floNVcrs,  so  hovcringly  interwoven,  song  and  scent, 
witli  that  soft  tissue  of  sunbeams — the  balmy  air  of 
the  glad  green  garden,  where  all  around  us  the  buds 
and  leaves  were  interchanging  witli  each  other  a 
thousand  gentle  greetings?  or  was  it  those  tender 
tlireads  which  the  gossamer  spiders  had  so  finely  spun 
from  house  to  house,  that  silently  exhorted  our  young 
hearts  to  follow  their  example?  or  was  it  something 
else  ?  One  thing  only  is  certain  ;  that  reconciliation 
was  inevitable  and  irresistible.  We  could  not  long 
remain  estranged  from  each  other.  And  then,  how 
fondly  were  the  girl's  arms  thrown  about  the  boy's 
neck,  and  how  fervently  the  boy  embraced  his  little 
friend !  I  believe  the  two  children  wept  bitterly  to 
think  that  anything  should  ever  have  come  between 
them,  so  dearly  did  they  love  each  other!' 

"'I  should  like  to  rest  a  little,'  said, the  Griifin, 
softly.  She  smiled  no  longer,  and  I  saw  that  her 
face  had  grown  fearfully  pale,  and  that  she  was 
trembling  all  over. 

"  I  sprang  forward ;  and  as  I  lifted  her  from  her 
horse,  my  feelings  completely  overcame  me. 

" '  Marie !'  I  cried,  clasping  her  to  my  heart — '  Ma- 
rie !  Marie !' 

"  She  struggled  like  a  frightened  child,  sprang  out 
of  ray  arms,  and  was  already  hanging  over  the  preci- 
pice. Had  I  not  instantly  seized  her  arm  and 
dragged  her  back,  she  would  have  dashed  herself  to 
death. 

"She  shrank  from  me,  and  stood  under  the  rock 


288  A  JOURNEY  TO 

that  beetled  over  the  narrow  patli,  staring  at  me, 
deadly  pale,  with  flashing  ej'es.  But  the  flash  of 
those  eyes  was  cold  as  the  light  that  glitters  on  an 
icicle,  and  she  looked  at  me  vacantly,  as  if  she  had 
never  seen  me  before.  Beneath  that  look  my  own 
drooped  abashed,  and  the  arm  with  which  I  had  held 
her  sank  nerveless  at  my  side.  I  reeled  back,  and 
leaned  against  the  mountain -shelf,  like  a  drunken 
man  who  has  been  staggered  by  a  sudden  sobering 
blow. 

"  She  walked  slowly  on,  without  speaking,  follow- 
ed by  the  guide,  who  had  overtaken  ns,  and  was  now 
leading  her  horse  behind  Iier. 

"I  went  after  them,  looking  neither  to  the  right 
nor  to  the  left,  and  seeing  before  me  nothing  but  the 
shifting  movements  of  the  mist,  that,  as  they  shut 
and  opened,  alternately  veiled  from  my  sight,  and 
then  again  revealed,  each  time  more  distant,  her  re- 
ceding image. 

"But  she  never  once  paused,  or  turned  to  look  be- 
liind  her.  And  as  a  man  who  walks  in  sleep,  I  fol- 
lowed her  footsteps  unconscious  of  my  own. 

"Dreaming  still,  I  reached  at  last  our  mountain 
goal ;  and  still  to  me  like  the  recollection  of  a  dread- 
ful dream  is  all  that  happened  after  that. 

"Even  as  I  speak  of  it  now  the  dreary  vision  re- 
appears. The  great  white  glacier,  with  the  double 
peaks  of  the  Glockner  rising  above  it ;  the  little 
woodman's  hut,  where  we  were  to  have  stopped  only 
for  refreshment ;  the  count,  in  his  recovered  good- 
humor,  laughing  and  jesting  -with  the  two  guides  and 
the  shepherd  over  their  meal ;  and  then  the  hurri- 


THE   GROSSGLOCKNER  MOUNTAIN.  289 

cane  and  driving  rain  that  suddenly  surprised  us 
there,  and  rendered  our  return  impossible. 

"I  remember  that  all  through  tlie  storm  I  sat  out- 
side the  hut  in  the  pouring  rain,  and  that  the  night 
which  darkened  round  me  there  was  not  gloomier 
than  my  own  thoughts. 

"  On  returning  to  the  hut,  I  found  the  count 
stretched  full  length  upon  a  heap  of  hay,  and  fast 
asleep.  The  shepherd  was  seated  at  the  door  of  the 
hut  smoking,  and  he  smiled  to  himself  as  I  entered. 
I  thought  he  took  mo  for  an  eccentric  Englishman. 
There  was  scarcely  room  enough  for  a  third  person, 
but  I  threw  myself  down  upon  the  hay  beside  the 
count,  and  the  shepherd  presently  followed  my  ex- 
ample.    Soon  he,  too,  was  fast  asleep. 

"I  know  not  how  long  a  time  I  had  passed  in  a 
horrible  wakefulness  between  these  two  sound  sleep- 
ers, when  I  was  startled  b}'  a  piercing  cry  from  the 
little  inner  cabin,  where  a  bed  had  been  nmde  up  for 
the  countess.  I  awakened  the  count,  Avho  laughed 
at  ray  frightened  face,  but,  yielding  to  my  entreaties, 
went  to  assure  himself  that  notliing  was  the  matter. 

"He  soon  returned,  and  asked  the  shepherd  to 
fetch  some  water.  It  was  with  no  laughing  face 
that  he  said  to  me, 

'"I  fear  my  wife  has  taken  cold.  She  is — un- 
well.' 

"  The  shepherd,  meanwhile,  who  had  gone  out 
with  a  lighted  torch  to  look  for  the  water,  now  came 
back,  bringing  it ;  and  as  soon  as  the  count  had  left 
us  again,  he  turned  to  me  and  said,  shaking  his  head, 

"  '  I  was  afraid  of  this.' 
19 


290  A  JOURNEY  TO 

"'What  do  you  mean?'  I  cried,  with  increasing 
ahirin. 

"'Well,'  said  the  man,  'this  evening,  while  3'ou 
were  out  in  the  storm,  the  lady  asked  for  you.  The 
other  gentleman  was  asleep,  and  she  seemed  anxious; 
60  I  told  her  I  would  go  and  look  for  you.  When  I 
liad  got  but  a  little  distance  from  the  hut,  I  saw  where 
3'ou  were ;  but  just  as  I  turned  to  go  back,  I  was  sur- 
prised to  see  the  lady  herself,  lightly  clad  as  she  was, 
standing  out  in  the  rain,  and  looking  all  about  her. 
I  pointed  out  to  her  the  stone  on  which  you  were  sit- 
ting; for,  being  so  white,  it  was  just  visible  through 
the  darkness.  And  then  she  returned  to  the  hut. 
But,  instead  of  going  at  once  to  her  room,  she  stood 
at  the  door-way  in  her  wet  clothes  till  she  saw  you 
coming.' 

"Just  as  the  shepherd  said  this,  the  count  opened 
the  door  and  called  me  into  the  cabin. 

"She  was  lying  on  a  plaid  which  had  been  spread 
for  her  over  the  hay,  and  I  saw  at  once  that  siie  was 
in  a  high  fever. 

"The  count  stood  by  her,  perfectly  helpless;  and 
this,  perhaps,  gave  me  more  presence  of  mind.  The 
shepherd  was  a  young  giant ;  and  though  the  night 
was  pitch-dark,  and  the  storm  unabated,  lie,  at  my 
request,  agreed  to  set  out  instantly  to  Ileilingbluth, 
whence  he  was  to  despatch  a  mounted  messenger  to 
Winklern,  or  elsewhere,  for  the  nearest  doctor.  The 
doctor  was  to  wait  for  us  at  Ileilingbluth,  and  the 
shepherd  to  rejoin  us  at  the  hut  with  all  possible  ex- 
pedition, bringing  with  him  two  strong  men.  He 
declared  himself  qnite  ready  to  undertake  this  dan- 


THE   GROSSGLOCKNER  MOUNTAIN".  291 

gerons  enterprise  even  before  I  had  said  a  word 
about  liis  reward. 

"  'I  am  so  sorry  for  the  poor  little  lady!'  said  he; 
and  forth  he  strode,  strong  of  step  and  stout  of  heart, 
into  the  vast  black  night. 

"I  then  waked  up  the  two  guides,  who  had  found 
a  bedroom  for  themselves  in  a  big  hay-stack  not  far 
from  the  hut.  With  their  assistance  I  managed  to 
construct,  out  of  such  bits  of  timber  as  we  could 
iind,  a  sort  of  sedan-chair,  tolerably  comfortable; 
and  in  tiiis,  as  soon  as  the  dawn  broke,  we  carried 
our  patient  down  the  mountain  towards  Ileiling- 
bluth. 

"The  count  rode  silently  on  just  in  front, and  I  as 
silently  walked  just  behind  the  bearers.  The  clouds 
liung  low,  but  the  rain  had  stopped.  Tiie  whole 
landscape  was  shrouded  in  a  gloomy  gray  color.  The 
Moll,  rushing  from  its  unseen  sources  in  the  glacier, 
rolled  beside  us  all  the  M^ay  with  a  dismal,  dirge-like 
sound,  and  I  seemed  to  myself  to  be  walking  in  a 
funeral  procession. 

"Near  the  Briccius  Chapel  we  found  the  shepherd, 
•and  the  two  men  he  had  brought  with  him  now  re- 
lieved the  otiier  bearers.  And  so,  at  last,  we  got  her 
down  to  Heilingbluth. 

"After  some  hours  of  the  most  intense  anxiety, 
the  doctor  arrived.  He  was  a  kindly -looking  old 
man,  witli  snow-white  hair,  and  a  mild,  smiling  face, 
which  had  assumed  an  expression  of  ominous  grav- 
ity when  ho  rejoined  us  after  his  visit  to  the  sick- 
room. 

"'An  inflammation  of  the  lungs!'  he  said,  in  re- 


292  A  JOURNEY  TO 

ply  to  my  breatlilcss  inquiry;  and  I  could  sec  by 
Ills  face  that  lie  had  formed  the  worst  opinion  of 
the  case. 

"Famous  physicians  were  summoned  from  a  dis- 
tance. They  came, and  consulted  together;  and  hav- 
ing declared  that  they  could  do  no  more  than  the 
old  doctor  had  already  done,  they  went  away. 

"Then  followed  long,  weary  days  of  endless  dis- 
tress, when  daily  I  looked  in  vain  for  a  favorable 
change  in  the  countenance  of  the  old  doctor.  lie 
was  a  very  old  man  ;  he  must  have  stood  by  the  sick- 
beds of  two  generations;  and  yet  he  always  seemed 
greatly  affected  and  troubled  when  he  entered  my 
room  after  leaving  hers.  He  said  little,  but  on 
those  occasions  I  noticed  that  he  eyed  me  searching- 
]y  and  thoughtfnllj',  as  if  I,  also,  were  one  of  his 
patients. 

"Once  when  I  vehemently  seized  his  arm,  and 
asked,  in  a  tone  of  agony,  'Must  she  die?'  he  looked 
earnestly  into  my  eyes  before  answering.  I  believe 
that  the  kind-hearted  old  man  read  my  soul  like  an 
open  book. 

"'Must?'  he  said,  slowly.  'No!  If  she  wished- 
to  live,  she  would  not  die.' 

"The  evening  of  the  same  day  the  doctor  entered 
my  room,  accompanied  by  the  count,  whose  distress 
throughout  the  whole  of  this  wretched  time  liad  been 
so  great  as  to  render  him  quite  incapable  of  doing 
or  saying  anything.  The  count  sank  helplessly  into 
a  chair,  while  the  old  doctor  walked  without  speak- 
ing to  the  window,  and  looked  silently  at  the  mount- 
ains outside.      I  had  risen  at  their  entrance,  but  I 


THE   GEOSSGLOCKNEli   MOU^S'TAIN.  293 

could  scarcely  breathe,  so  great  was  my  anxiety  and 
fear  to  learn  the  worst.  Suddenly  I  felt  the  grasp 
of  the  count's  hand  upon  my  arm. 

"  '  It  is  the  doctor's  wish,'  said  he, '  that  you  should 
see  her.  A  crisis,  he  says,  is  close  at  hand.  She  has 
called  for  yon  several  times.  Go  to  her,  dear  friend, 
I  beseech  you !" 

"He  pressed  both  my  hands,  and  burst  into  tears. 
I  turned  to  the  old  doctor,  and  asked  if  he  had  any 
instructions  to  give  mo.  The  old  man  was  so  affected 
that  he  could  not  speak.  But  he  looked  at  me  ear- 
nestly, just  as  he  had  done  that  morning,  and  his  eyes 
seemed  to  repeat  what  his  lips  had  then  said. 

"So  I  went. 

"  She  was  lying  quite  calm  and  still.  Ilcr  eyes 
were  closed,  and  her  face  was  hueless. 

"  '  Marie  !'  I  whispered. 

"  Slie  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  at  me.  It  was 
the  soft,  tender  look  of  her  childhood,  the  same  deep, 
longing  look  as  of  old  —  a  look  which  said  plainer 
than  words  can  say, '  Come,  then,  come  to  me  quick- 
ly.    I  have  waited  so  long  for  thy  coming!' 

"I  bent  over  her,  and  to  her  poor  white  face  the 
old  smile  of  childlike  welcome  returned  —  the  old 
smile,  which  seemed  to  say, '  Thou  art  here  at  last !' 
She  lifted  her  feeble  hands,  put  her  arms  about  my 
neck,  drew  my  head  softly  down  to  her  breast,  press- 
ed her  lips  upon  my  own,  and  kissed  me  again  and 
again  with  unrestrained  tenderness.  Then  she  took 
my  head  in  both  her  hands,  held  it  before  her  eyes, 
and  gazed  at  me  a  long  while  without  speaking. 

"At  last  she  murmured  faintly, '  Good-by,  dear !' 


294  A  JOURNEY  TO 

"The  weak  liands  unlocked  their  clasp,  the  tired 
eyelids  closed,  and  the  smile  died  slowly  away. 

" '  Don't  go !'  I  sobbed.     '  Don't  leave  me,  Marie!' 

"  But  she  lay  quite  still. 

"Then,  through  that  dreadful  stillness,  I  seemed 
to  hear  again  the  words  which  the  old  doctor  had 
said  to  me  that  morning, 

" '  If  she  wished  to  live,  she  would  not  die.'' 

"And  I  spoke  to  her  again — broken  words,  that 
came  in  sobs  out  of  the  depths  of  my  heart  as  I  bent 
above  her. 

"'Marie,' I  sobbed,  'have  you,  then,  forgotten  the 
daj's  of  our  childhood? — forgotten  that  if  you  go,  I 
go,  and  that  only  while  you  stay,  I  stay  ?  Not  for 
your  sake,  Marie,  but  for  mine — for  my  sake  only 
still,  as  it  was  so  often  in  those  old  daj's  !  Had  you 
ever  before  the  heart  to  deny  me  anything?  For 
my  sake,  dear,  for  my  sake  only,  stay  !' 

"'Oh, you  naughty  boy!'  she  said.  And  the  old 
smile  broke  out  again,  and  the  tears  were  trickling 
softly  down  her  cheek." 

Eadenburg  was  suddenly  silent  again.  I  looked 
hard  at  him. 

"  The  smoke  went  into  my  eyes,"  he  said,  in  a 
hoarse  voice;  and  I  saw  that  down  his  own  cheek, 
also,  a  tear  was  trickling  softly. 

After  a  while  he  resumed  in  a  steadier  tone. 

"  Our  journey  is  done,"  he  said.  "  We  have  made 
the  ascent  of  the  Grossglockner  Mountain,  and  the 
ascent  is  over.  Every  day  at  this  hour  I  renew  that 
journey.     A  foolish  habit,  is  it  not?     Here  in  this 


THE  GROSSGLOCKNER  MOUNTAIN.  295 

casket  I  keep  her  portrait.  Her  husband  gave  it  me 
in  remembrance  of  tlie  sad  days  we  passed  together 
at  rieilingbhith.  The  smoke  rises  from  my  chi- 
houque,  and  encircles  her  dear  liead  with  clouds,  as 
did  tiie  mountain  mist  that  day  when  she  and  I  as- 
cended the  Glockner  together.  It  shapes  itself  into 
giant  images,  and  piles  itself  up  in  phantom  tow- 
ers, and  takes  the  forms  of  distant  mountain  peaks. 
And  sometimes  the  ghastly  vapor  envelops  her  so 
completely  that  I  see  her  through  it  only  as  a  wan- 
dering shadow;  and  then  again  it  disperses, and  she 
emerges  from  the  mist,  every  feature  of  her  gentle 
face  distinct  and  lovely  and  loving,  as  of  old.  'Thou 
art  here  at  last !'  it  seems  to  say  to  me  again.  And 
around  us  both  the  soft  caressing  vapor  flings  its 
flaky  mantle,  separating  us  from  the  loud  wide  world 
outside,  and  opening  to  us  secret  labyrinths  through 
cloud-land,  where  we  wander  once  again  together, 
telling  each  other  stories — stories  of  the  buried  lives 
which  we  ourselves  once  lived  in  the  days  forever 
gone — and  interpreting,  by  a  key  that  is  ours  alone, 
tiie  mystic  image-writing  of  the  mist.  Every  move- 
ment of  that  clierished  form  I  see  again  as  when  I 
saw  it  first ;  every  sound  of  that  dear  voice  I  hear 
once  more  as  first  I  heard  it ;  and  looking  and  lis- 
tening thus  entranced,  I  dream  awake  with  eyes  wide 
open." 

"And  she  died,  then  ?"  I  asked,  hesitatingly,  when 
he  ceased  speaking.  For  he  remained  silent,  as  if 
he  had  told  me  all  there  was  to  tell. 

Radenburg  rose,  took  the  key  out  of  the  casket, 
and  attached  it  again  to  his  watch-chain.     Then  he 


296  A  JOUKNEY  TO 

went  to  the  window  and  stood  there,  looking  down 
upon  the  terrace  below.  After  a  while,  without 
turning  round,  he  spoke  again,  with  his  buck  to  me, 
and  his  face  to  the  window. 

" Died ?"  he  said.  "Perhaps.  Who  knows?  It 
is  all  the  same  to  me.  If  she  died,  it  was  for  my 
sake.  Her  death  came  to  her  from  watching  for  mo 
in  the  midnight  storm,  and  she  died  because,  for  my 
sake,  she  wished  to  die.  And  if  she  lived,  it  was  for 
my  sake  also — though  not  for  me.  For  she  lived  a 
true  and  faithful  wife.  Between  her  life  and  death 
there  is  for  me  no  difference  left — both  dear,  both 
dead  !  And  it  is  this  that  has  given  rest  to  my  heart 
and  resignation  to  my  soul.  I  may  always  think  of 
her,  now  that  I  can  only  think  of  her  as  of  a  shy 
child  seated  motionless  upon  a  marble  throne  beneath 
a  bower  of  passion-flowers.  Whenever  I  see  any  lit- 
tle girl  sitting  all  alone  by  herself,  I  think  of  tliat  lit- 
tle girl  all  by  herself  in  the  lonesome  past  that  noth- 
ing can  now  disturb.  Her  childlike  eyes  gaze  down 
on  me  whenever  I  wander  alone  in  the  forest  and 
Took  up  into  the  blue  heaven  above  me.  Ay,  and 
even  when  I  do  but  think  of  heaven,  and  of  what 
fathomless  depths  there  are  in  the  still,  unchanging, 
all-embracing  watch  with  which,  wherever  I  go,  its 
presence  follows  me  about  the  world — a  presence  so 
constant  and  so  fair,  yet  so  far  away,  so  unattainable ! 
Ever  the  heaven  is  there  above  me,  and  never  is  its 
heavenliness  defaced  by  what  is  here  around  me. 
It  looks  down  to-day  on  the  resignation  of  the  man, 
as  it  looked  in  the  days  that  are  no  more  upon  the 
hopefulness  of  the  boy.     And  just  so,  forever  there. 


TUE   GKOSSGLOCKNER  MOUNTAIN.  397 

"wlicre  first  I  saw  it  in  my  childhood,  yet  forever 
with  me  still,  and  forever  the  same  as  of  old,  is  the 
changeless  image  of  that  lonely  child  in  the  bowery 
garden  under  the  ruined  tower. 

"Here,  too,  in  the  cloud-land  that  rises  around  me 
on  the  fumes  of  this  solitarj^  pipe,  when  with  her  I 
wander  away  among  the  gray,  rolling  vapors  —  far- 
ther and  farther  through  the  misty  shadow's  that 
deepen  and  darken  towards  the  scene  of  that  last 
struggle  on  the  painful  sick-bed  in  the  little  mount- 
ain inn — it  is  still  ever  the  same  image  that  I  see 
and  follow — the  child's  image,  not  the  woman's!  It 
was  not  the  wife  of  another  who,  in  that  lifelong 
farewell,  so  tenderly  embraced  me.  It  was  the  child 
whose  childhood  was  all  my  own,  with  her  holy  child- 
eyes,  and  her  pure  child-lips,  and  her  divine  child- 
heart.  And  when  she  lay  upon  my  breast  for  one 
dear  moment,  it  was  the  fairy  song  of  our  childhood 
whose  enchantment  trembled  through  our  souls — the 
same  pure  song  which  oiir  hearts  had  first  sung  to- 
gether under  the  old  tower.  We  heard  it  then  for 
the  last  time,  as  we  had  heard  it  for  the  first — pure 
and  sweet,  with  the  music  of  a  sinless  joy,  only  that 
then  the  music  was  sad  as  well  as  sweet ;  and  again 
it  died  away,  as  how  often  had  it  died  away  before, 
whenever  for  my  sake  her  true  heart  condemned  it- 
self to  suifer  and  endure.  '  Oh^  you  naughty  loyP 
she  murmured,  smiling  through  her  tears  when  I 
implored  her  to  live  for  my  sake.  And  any  one 
who  has  never  heard  those  words  from  her  dear  lips 
may  well  smile  at  such  a  dying  out  of  childhood's 
son":." 


298  A  JOUKNEY  TO 

Radenburg  said  no  more ;  nor  did  he  move  away 
from  tiie  window,  wliere  he  remained,  with  his  hands 
clasped  behind  him,  silently  looking  down  upon  the 
trees  in  the  garden  below. 

In  silence,  too,  I  pressed  his  hand,  and  without  a 
word  I  stole  out  of  the  room. 

I  returned  to  the  garden,  pondering  how  the  life 
of  two  persons  would  shape  itself  out  if  one  of  them 
lived,  only  for  the  other's  sake,  a  life  otherwise  un- 
willingly prolonged.  The  one,  I  mused,  wrestles 
with  death  only  to  insure  the  life  of  the  other,  and 
life's  mightiest  impulse,  that  of  self-preservation,  be- 
comes only  the  instrument  of  a  purpose  mightier 
still — the  preservation  of  another.  Sanctified  to  it- 
self must  such  a  life  become  by  all  that  has  made 
dependent  on  the  issue  of  its  hourly  trial  the  salva- 
tion of  another  life  that  is  dearer  to  it  than  its  own, 
when  in  every  moment  of  dejection  and  defeat  the 
warning  voice  cries  to  the  aching  heart,  "  If  thou 
diest,  he  must  die!"  and  the  weary  one  returns  to 
the  struggle,  triumphing  over  sickness  and  suffer- 
ing, and  death  itself,  in  the  thought  that  whispers, 
"The  lono:er  this  struo^crle  lasts,  the  lonjier  his  re- 
prieve !" 

And  then  I  mused  again  over  my  poor  friend's 
story,  and  I  said  to  myself,  "  What  is  it  in  the  human 
heart  that,  when  you  search  it  to  the  depths,  is  al- 
ways so  unspeakably  sad,  and  yet  so  unspeakably 
beautiful  ?" 

As  I  strolled  along,  thus  musing,  my  steps  uncon- 
sciously led  me  back  to  the  deserted  terrace,  and  I 
saw  that  some  one  was  still  sitting  there  all  alone. 


THE   GROSSGLOCKNER  MOUNTAIN.  299 

It  was  Countess  Aclienberg.  She  had  not  noticed 
my  approach,  and  consequently  she  did  not  look  up 
when  I  took  possession  of  a  garden  seat  beside  Iier. 
She  was  sitting  in  the  same  place,  and  in  the  same 
attitude,  as  when  I  had  left  her  two  hours  ago. 

A  light  breeze  had  sprung  up.  It  softly  stirred 
the  leaves  upon  the  garden  trees  about  us,  and  grace- 
fully swaj'ed  the  long,  delicate  tufts  of  Indian  grass 
under  the  veranda,  as  it  crept  into  the  trellised  vine. 
The  aloes  on  the  balustrade,  however,  remained  mo- 
tionless, and  so  did  the  solitary  woman  who  was 
sitting  under  them,  while  the  breeze  fluttered  about 
lier. 

Lightlj'  the  fluttering  breeze  played  over  that  mo- 
tionless figure,  and  blowing  softly  up  the  terrace, 
breathed  npon  my  face  with  a  faint,  sweet  odor. 
Whence  had  it  brought  this  perfume  ?  Was  it  stolen 
from  some  flowering  shrub  in  the  garden,  or  wafted 
from  the  hair  of  the  silent  woman  at  my  side  ?  or  was 
its  home  in  the  warmth  of  the  little  white  hand  that 
lay  so  languid  in  her  quiet  lap  ?  or  was  it  a  sweet  ef- 
fusion from  the  whole  figure  of  the  woman  which, 
overshadowed  by  the  spreading  canopy  of  rigid  aloe- 
shafts — a  spiky  baldachin  of  sombre  hue — seemed  to 
liave  relapsed  again  into  the  solemn  fixity  of  a  sacred 
image? 

Whatever  the  source  of  it,  this  perfume  seemed  to 
me  like  the  breath  of  some  delicate  flower  which, 
when  the  rains  are  over  and  the  winds  are  still,  soft- 
ly opens  to  heaven  all  its  hushed  and  fragrant  heart 
in  a  stillness  of  unclouded  light. 

Penetrated  in  every  pore  by  the  beauty  and  fra- 


800  A  JOURNEY  TO 

grancc  of  it,  I  gazed  upon  the  fragile  lininan  flower 
before  me.  But  sweet  and  lovely  as  it  was,  I  felt 
that  of  all  who  must  be  sensible  of  its  charm,  not 
one  would  ever  wish  to  pluck  that  beautiful  blossom. 
Such  a  wish  would  have  been  sacrilege.  The  beau- 
ty on  which  I  gazed  was  so  unmistakably  a  beauty 
dedicated  to  the  grave!  "Farewell,"  not  "wel- 
come," was  the  word  its  sweetness  breathed.  The 
perfume  I  inhaled  was  not  the  freshness  of  a  grow- 
ing flower,  but  the  fragrance  of  a  fading  one — the 
last  sweet  emanation  of  a  beautiful  soul  that  was 
slowly  and  proudly  withering  away  with  the  secret 
of  its  suffering  unbetrayed — a  soul  which  only  lin- 
gered still  in  those  large  eyes  (life's  last  outposts), 
like  the  gallant  leader  of  a  vanquished  host,  to  cover 
the  retreat  of  its  defeated  forces.  Why  she  thus 
willed  to  live  on,  who  could  say  ?  Her  life  seemed 
so  joyless,  so  fatigued  !  But  one  felt,  as  one  looked 
at  lier,  that  if  she  chose,  she  had  only  to  close  those 
eyes  in  which  the  light  of  life  still  lingered,  and  to 
cease  to  live,  without  an  effort. 

I  knew  that  she  must  have  been  sitting  thus,  mo- 
tionless, for  two  long  mortal  hours  and  more ;  and 
the  painful  contemplation  of  this  dreary  trance  so 
affected  and  oppressed  me  that  I  felt  an  irresistible 
impulse  to  endeavor  at  any  price  to  arouse  her  from 
it,  even  at  the  risk  of  appearing  intrusive  and  im- 
portunate. 

A  walking-stick  lying  on  the  table  near  her  sig- 
nificantly warned  me  that  some  other  guest  had 
probably  been  making  such  an  attempt,  with  a  fail- 
ure so  ignominious  that  he  had  left  part  of  his  equip- 


THE   GROSSGLOCKNER  MOUNTAIN.  301 

mcnt  behind  liiin  in  the  confusion  of  liis  retreat. 
But  I  remembered  that  she  had  shown  some  inter- 
est in  the  general  discussion  Vvhich  had  taken  place 
under  the  trees  while  we  were  waiting  for  dinner, 
and  I  fancied  that  by  recurrence  to  the  subject  of 
that  discussion  I  might  possibly  extract  a  smile  from 
her. 

"Countess,"  I  said,  drawing  my  chair  a  little  near- 
er to  hers,  "you  asked  me  tiiis  afternoon  if  I,  as 
Radenburg's  friend,  was  acquainted  with  his  secret. 
Well,  it  happens  that  I  am ;  and  I  will  tell  it  you. 
Every  day  at  a  certain  hour  he  makes  the  ascent  of 
the  Grossglockner  Mountain." 

My  heart  stopped  beating  under  the  look  she  gave 
me  as  I  said  tliose  words.  Iler  large,  childlike  eyes 
opened  wide,  and  stared  at  me  with  an  expression  I 
cannot  describe.  On  their  long,  soft  lashes  two  big 
heavy  tears  were  trembling.  She  had  risen  sudden- 
ly from  her  seat.  Her  arms  hung  flat  at  her  side, 
and  her  beautiful  head  was  slightly  slanted  towards 
her  right  shoulder.  Over  her  lips  fluttered  a  strange 
quivering  movement  that  was  neither  a  smile  nor 
a  sigh,  though  in  it  was  something  kindred  to  each. 
The  expression  of  it  was  both  sweet  and  painful — 
like  that  dying  away  of  a  soul's  song,  of  which  Rad- 
enburg  had  said  to  me  that  he  only  could  imagine 
the  effect  of  it  who  had  heard  it  from  her  own  lips. 
And  liis  words  rushed  back  to  my  memory  like  a 
revelation — "  Did  she  die  f  Perhaps.  Who  knows  f 
But  if  she  lived,  it  was  for  my  sake — though  not  for 
me— for  she  lived  a  true  and  faithful  wife.^^ 

I  lield  my  breath,  listening  for  tlie  childish  words 


302    A  JOURNEY  TO  THE  GROSSGLOCKNER  MOUNTAIN. 

of  cliildhood's  renewed  farewell,  "  Oh^  yon  naxKjhtij 
hoy  P''     But  she  said  nothing'. 

Tiie  silence  remained  unbroken  ;  and  the  cry  of 
her  heart,  wliatever  it  was,  had  died  out  unheard  in 
that  inaudible  movement  of  her  lips. 

All  I  could  see  was  that  the  two  big  tears  had 
slipped  from  the  lieavj  lashes  on  which,  but  a  mo- 
ment before,  I  had  seen  them  suspended,  and  were 
slowly  trickling  down  the  pale  cheeks  of  the  little 
countess. 


A 


'"^ 


TIIE   END. 


BEN-HUR:  A  TALE  OF  THE  CHRIST. 


Bv  Lew.  Wallace.     New  Edition,     pp.  552.     16tno, 
"  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Anything  so  startling,  new,  and  distinctive  as  the  leading  feature  of  this 
romance  does  not  often  appear  in  worlis  of  fiction.  .  .  .  Some  of  Mr.  Wal- 
lace's writing  is  remarkable  for  its  pathetic  eloquence.  The  scenes  de- 
scribed in  the  New  Testament  are  rewritten  with  the  power  and  skill  of 
an  accomplished  master  of  style. — iV.  F.  Times. 

Its  real  basis  is  a  description  of  the  life  of  the  Jews  and  Romans  at  the 
beginning  of  the  Christian  era,  and  this  is  both  forcible  and  brilliant.  .  .  . 
We  are  carried  through  a  surprising  variety  of  scenes ;  we  witness  a  sea- 
fight,  a  chariot-race,  the  internal  economy  of  a  Roman  galley,  domestic  in- 
teriors at  Antioch,  at  Jerusalem,  and  among  the  tribes  of  the  desert;  pal- 
aces, prisons,  the  haunts  of  dissipated  Roman  youth,  the  houses  of  pious 
families  of  Israel.  There  is  plenty  of  exciting  incident;  everything  is 
animated,  vivid,  and  glowing. — iV.  Y.  Tribune. 

From  the  opening  of  the  volume  to  the  very  close  the  reader's  interest 
will  be  kept  at  the  highest  pitch,  and  the  novel  will  be  pronounced  by  all 
one  of  the  greatest  novels  of  the  day. — Boston  Post. 

It  is  full  of  poetic  beauty,  as  though  born  of  an  Eastern  sage,  and  there 
is  sufficient  of  Oriental  customs,  geography,  nomenclature,  etc.,  to  greatly 
strengthen  the  semblance. — Boston  Commonwealth. 

"Cen-IInv"  is  interesting,  and  its  characterization  is  fine  and  strong. 
Meanwhile  -t  evmces  careful  study  of  the  period  in  which  the  scene  is  laid, 
and  will  help  those  who  read  it  with  reasonable  attention  to  realize  tho 
nature  and  conditions  of  Hebrew  life  in  Jerusalem  and  Roman  life  at 
Antioch  at  the  time  of  our  Saviour's  advent. — Examiner,  N.  Y. 

It  is  really  Scripture  history  of  Christ's  time  clothed  gracefully  and 
delicately  in  the  flowing  and  loose  drapery  of  modern  fiction.  .  .  .  Few  late 
works  of  fiction  excel  it  in  genuine  ability  and  interest. — N.  Y.  Graphic. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  and  delightful  books.  It  is  as  real  and 
warm  as  life  itself,  and  as  attractive  as  the  grandest  and  most  heroic 
chapters  of  history. — Lidianapolis  Journal. 

The  book  is  one  of  unquestionable  power,  and  will  be  read  with  un- 
wonted interest  by  many  readers  who  are  weary  of  the  conventional  novel 
and  romance. — Boston  Journal. 


PcBMsnED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York. 

tff  The  above  work  sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States 
or  Canada,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


CONSTANCE  F.  WOOLSON'S  NOVELS. 


EAST  ANGELS.     IGmo,  Cloth,  $1  25.    - 

ANNE.     Illustrated.     16mo,  Cloth,  |1  25. 

FOR  THE  MAJOR.    16mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 

CASTLE   NOWHERE.     16rao,  Cloth,  §1  GO.    {A  New 
JEdition.) 

RODMAN  THE  KEEPER.    Southern  Sketches.    16rao, 
Cloth,  %\  00.     {A  Neio  Edition) 

There  is  a  certain  bright  cheerfulness  in  Miss  Woolson's  writing  which 
invests  all  her  characters  with  lovable  qualities. — Jewish  Advocate,  N.  Y. 

Miss  Woolson  is  among  our  few  successful  writers  of  interesting  mag- 
azine stories,  and  her  skill  and  power  are  perceptible  in  tlie  delineation  of 
her  heroines  no  less  than  in  the  suggestive  pictures  of  local  life. — Jewish 
Messenger,  N.  Y. 

Constance  Fenimore  Woolson  may  easily  become  the  novelist  laureate. 
— Boston  Globe. 

Miss  Woolson  has  a  graceful  fancy,  a  ready  wit,  a  polished  style,  and 
conspicuous  dramatic  power;  while  her  skill  in  the  development  of  a 
story  is  very  remarkable. — London  Life. 

Miss  Woolson  never  once  follows  the  beaten  track  of  the  orthodox  nov- 
elist, but  strikes  a  new  and  richly  loaded  vein  which,  so  far,  is  all  her 
own ;  and  thus  we  feel,  on  reading  one  of  her  works,  a  fresh  sensation, 
and  we  put  down  the  book  with  a  sigh  to  think  our  pleasant  task  of  read- 
ing it  is  finished.  The  author's  lines  must  have  fallen  to  her  in  very 
pleasant  places ;  or  she  has,  perhaps,  within  herself  the  wealth  of  woman- 
ly love  and  tenderness  she  pours  so  freely  into  all  she  writes.  Such  books 
as  hers  do  much  to  elevate  the  moral  tone  of  the  day — a  quality  sadly 
wanting  in  novels  of  the  time. —  Whitelmll  Review,  London. 


PuBLisiiKD  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York. 

S^~  IlAiirRR  &  Bkotiikks  will  send  the  above  works  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to 
any  part  of  the  United  States  or  Canada,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


